Thine Hatred To Crown
by Yeade
Summary: Every once in a while, the Master of Laketown had Bard brought to his bed as an object lesson on their respective positions. After Bard becomes King of Dale, he begins a relationship with Thorin, whom he eventually tells something of his past. Thorin, furious, dishes out a very generous serving of bloody cold revenge.
1. Chapter 1, Part 1: Thorin

This is my very first time writing Thorin and the Dwarves in any detail, not to mention the immediate aftermath of the Battle of Five Armies, so the chapter caused me... some anxiety. I could probably do with a bit of dedicated research into the history and culture of the Dwarves, both canon and fanon, rather than relying on my general knowledge of _The Lord of the Rings_ appendices and what I've gleaned from other people's stories, but I was impatient to begin. As it happens, I have need of haste because the word count has doubled, _at least_, from that of Chapter 2 (Yeade on AO3). Which means, yep, there's more to come, despite the length of this section!

Per the prompt from the Hobbit Kink Meme (hobbit_kink on LJ), there will eventually be non-graphic **discussion of rape**. This is, however, towards the end of the chapter and has yet to be written. Until then, the fic can easily be read as gen or pre-slash edging ever so slowly into an unexpected romcom, with no warnings. Well, aside from one for the angst that's pretty standard for post-BOFA stories from Thorin's perspective, especially as I've tried to be as canon conscious as possible within the limits of this AU mash-up of book and film.

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**Thine Hatred To Crown**

_Thorin_

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Revenge should have no bounds.  
>— <em>Hamlet<em>, Act IV, Scene VII

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Thorin Oakenshield had not been given to rashness since he reclaimed Erebor to rule as King Under the Mountain. When he'd first awoken after the battle, he had thought only of making amends before death took him: To Bilbo, whose brave service in a cause not his and friendship, _care_, deserved a better turn than to be summarily accused a traitor, threatened and exiled. To Fíli and Kíli, whose voices as survivors of Laketown's ruin and as his heirs, his closest kin, should have carried more weight in his counsels. And to the rest of his company, whose honor and loyalty had demanded that they stand with him to the end, no matter how bitter an end he made. Even to Bard, whose singleminded determination to see his people done right by Thorin could respect, the will that had, wed to skill and luck, at last laid low Smaug the Magnificent.

Upon what he was certain would be his deathbed, a deep, persistent ache in his chest that was too dulled to be anything but a mercy meant to ease his passing, Thorin found that the wrongs he'd taken such offense at in his stiff-necked pride—the snarling beast under his skin that would suffer no slights nor ever bow to another's power—did not amount to so very much when balanced on the scales against his own sins and the wonder of Erebor finally, finally restored. He would not be able to see the latter through, he thought, with less regret than he expected, but the former was within his ability to redress. _Unless..._

Thorin sat up with a wrench, only to fold in pain, a wetness spreading beneath the bandages wound tight around his bare torso as his flesh tore anew, his ribs grinding. He hated the choked scream that clawed its way up out of his throat, so weak, so helpless, when the fates of everyone he cared for were unknown to him. _Do they yet live?_ His vision swam, blackening at the edges. Panting harshly, he fisted his hands in the blankets to keep himself from falling back down onto the bed. _They must..._ A struggle he ultimately lost, like so many others, along with his consciousness, but not before Bofur's hat came into view, bobbing anxiously at his side and presumably safe atop Bofur's head. _One_, Thorin counted, his relief trailing him into the dark, a bright spark.

When next he woke, it was to Óin's touch, gentle but firm, careful and knowledgeable. _Two._ "—needs to rest. Healing can't be rushed, especially after some fool tears his stitches trying to get up from bed." Though Thorin's ears felt stuffed with wool and his eyelids as heavy as if they were carved of stone, he had no trouble recognizing Óin's exasperated healer's voice, which was so often accompanied by a fearsome scowl at his uncooperative patients. "This Elvish medicine, though... Say what you will about the Elves, they've more skill in the arts physic than any other race." A sigh. "He won't be pleased to owe them his life."

"But he will live," said a second voice, bluntly pragmatic, "and that is all that matters." Suddenly, a rolling laugh, as welcoming as a fire blazing in the hearth on a cold winter's night. _Glóin_, thought Thorin, warmed. _Three._ "Now I'm sure he'll recover. See how he frowns at being in debt to those..." Sleep dragged him down again.

Not until his third awakening was Thorin truly aware. It was night when he slowly blinked his way into consciousness. He lay in bed still, the off-white fabric of a canvas tent stretched overhead. There was a candle lit on the makeshift table beside him and a quiet presence. What had been a muted ache in his chest had seeped into his limbs and swelled into a gnawing pain, so fierce it robbed Thorin of breath as it crested at every movement, but he turned his head, gritting his teeth against his body's protests. Ori—_four_—sat on a stool, head bent, engrossed in...

He was knitting, Thorin decided, bemused, long wooden needles dipping deftly as he wove together thick strands of yarn, blue as a robin's egg. Where he had found yarn and needles Thorin could not guess, though he was grateful for it, glad that this youngest member of his company was not so hardened by war that he no longer took pleasure in the soft, steady weft and warp of good wool. Ori's eyes were shadowed, an angry scar running jagged down the left side of his face from temple to chin, and propped on the bed was a pair of crutches.

_Ori_, Thorin tried to say, but his mouth was dry, his tongue a numb weight, and he could only manage a pitiful croak. He was heard, nevertheless; Ori's head snapped up, his eyes widening. "You... Y-You're awake!" he stammered, hastily setting his knitting down on the bed so he could flutter both hands over Thorin's bandaged wounds. "Oh, drat it! What did Óin say to do if..." Trailing off, Ori studied the motley array of glasses, jars, and bottles on the table, gaze finally settling on a cup of water, already filled, a pitcher next to it. "Yes, of course!" He scooted his stool closer before holding the cup to Thorin's chapped lips with one hand, the other cradling Thorin's head. "Drink," said Ori, and Thorin obeyed, dazedly wondering when Ori had learned to command like Balin, unyielding as the bulk of the Misty Mountains for all that his tone was courteous and honeyed milk to the ears.

The water helped, and Thorin's mind cleared, though pain frayed his thoughts at the edges. He wanted to ask who else yet lived but, suddenly, he feared, doubts of his own strength touching his heart like icy fingers. Could he bear to hear that Bilbo was dead, his curly head cloven into a red mass of bone and gristle by an orc blade? That Balin and Dwalin, who'd survived the slaughter of Azanulbizar, had fallen? That Fíli or Kíli...

_Whatever other failings I am guilty of, cowardice has never been one of them._ Thorin was startled by the brush of wool against his knuckles, fleecy and feathery fine; he'd twisted the blankets up until Ori's knitting rested within reach. Weak, he couldn't stop himself from smoothing his hand over the yarn, again and again, the neat rows of stitches looping beneath his palm a small comfort. _I am not my father._ The thought rang hollow. Had he not believed the same about his grandfather's madness? Forcing the words past the lump in his throat, Thorin said, "Ori, tell me what—" He couldn't continue, a cough grating across the underside of his ribs as it pushed the air from his lungs.

Ori, brows drawn together in concentration, was stirring with a spoon the carefully measured contents of several bottles in a glass, the sides of which were stained by repeated use of the thin dark brown syrup. At Thorin's half-finished question, he glanced over, eyes falling on how Thorin's hand lay upon his knitting before darting away back to the foul concoction he no doubt intended to feed Thorin in short order.

"What I'm doing with knitting?" he said, with a nervous laugh. "I'm no good hauling stone with the work crews, you see, having to lug those"—he jerked his head at his crutches—"around. Óin's got me mixin' up medicines for him, and I saw some of the Men are coming down sick with the chills, nothing but the clothes on their backs to wear, so I went lookin' and—what do you know?—there was still yarn fit for knitting, that the moths hadn't eaten all to threads, in one of the lower storage rooms." Another nervous laugh. Ori talked in a rush, words tumbling one over the next, and his voice was high, squeaking, his shoulders hunched up almost to his ears. "Been keepin' busy knitting when Óin's got no use for me, which is most o' the day, to tell it true. A lot of scarves, since those are the quickest to do, even for them too tall Men, some hats, some mittens..."

Thorin frowned. That was not what he meant, and Ori... Letting the technical intricacies of knitting wash over him, Thorin noted how Ori avoided his gaze, head ducked, fingers fidgeting against the glass they held. _And he knows it well._ A cold suspicion grew in his gut—a hard, roiling ball of ill feeling that sent creeping tendrils of unease throughout his body. _What does he seek to hide from me?_ He could not move, could not breathe, dread twining around his chest and limbs, his throat, a strangling vine. Ori's eyes rounded with alarm, and he fumbled to bring the glass to Thorin's lips. "Drink," he said again, less command than plea this time. Thorin would've refused until he had his answers, but Ori whispered, "_Please_," and no member of his company should ever have to beg such a thing of him. He drank.

Óin's tonic for fever, aches and pains was as vile as he remembered from the aftermath of his more dangerous youthful follies, bitter and of a strange consistency that was slimy and sticky both at once. Thorin grimaced, fighting not to gag, as Ori fiddled aimlessly with the jars and bottles on the table, rearranging them. _You will not escape me so easily_, he thought, grimly determined, though not without pity for Ori as the reluctant bearer of what was certainly bad news.

But even as his mouth shaped a demand to know all that had happened since he fell on the battlefield, the heaviness of sleep spread insidiously through his arms and legs. _I've been tricked._ The look of relief on Ori's face was plain despite his increasing muzziness and drooping eyelids.

Right before he lost consciousness—_again_, a fact he was beginning to resent—the tent flap opened, admitting another visitor. "Ori, Nori told me you'd missed supper, so—" No matter that the voice stopped mid-sentence, Thorin had heard enough to identify the speaker, a little fussy and tone one of motherly concern. Dori made... _Five._ It was a struggle to focus. _And... Nori, too. Six._ Half the Dwarves of his company accounted for. Better than he feared but still so much less than he hoped.

"I couldn't—" Ori's breath hitched. "H-How are we going to tell him?" A sharp twist of worry pierced Thorin's cloudy distance at the hiccuping sounds that came from Ori, soft and stifled. _Tell me what?_ he wondered absently.

Dori padded closer, setting something down on the table. After a long moment, Ori's sobs gentling into sniffles, Dori said only, "Eat your greens, Ori." It was kindly said but sad. And Thorin slept with the ghost of his father's hand upon his head, warm and broad, smoothing over his hair as they talked solemnly of how Mother had gone to stay in the halls of Mahal, father to all their people. _"A beautiful place, my son, grander even than the Mountain, where she shall be waiting, smiling, to welcome us home when the day comes."_

The bright light of the midday sun shone white through the tent fabric when he woke again, alone and feeling irritable. He would not swallow another of Óin's confounded potions—and no amount of pleading would sway him!—until someone told him in no uncertain terms how fared his sister-sons, Master Baggins, and the remaining four members of his company who'd yet to show themselves. Teeth gritted, Thorin built up a blistering head of steam to unleash on his next nursemaid. Which was utterly deflated by the welcome sight of Dwalin's tall, wide-shouldered frame in the entrance, clean-shaven head gleaming proudly.

"Good," said Dwalin with little ado. " 'Bout time you woke." He inspected Thorin with a gimlet eye that he'd learned from their former armsmaster while Thorin stared at Dwalin, thankful that some thoughtful soul had propped him up so he wasn't flat on his back like, Thorin admitted sourly, the invalid he probably was. The pain had receded into a dull ache once more, with the occasional twinge, easily ignored, but this reprieve felt lasting, less a mercy granted to the dying. _And I'll need my strength._ This was Dwalin at his most difficult, scowling fit to send a legion of orcs running for the dank holes they crawled from and ornery as a bear with a sore paw. _Or a mother with cubs to defend._ Thorin nearly smiled at the old jab.

"Dwalin—" Thorin rasped, his breath catching in his throat before he could say more, though what he didn't know. His eyes burned, and he blinked furiously. Besides the addition of a bevy of new scars, thin and faded, across his knuckles, Dwalin was unchanged, as familiar to Thorin as a warm coat worn comfortable by years at his back, shielding him from wind, rain, and snow. He could not bring himself to be the least bit intimidated by Dwalin's black mood or his stomping prowl around the tent, as if checking the corners for spies and assassins.

The bowl of broth that Dwalin thrust into his hands was a surprise, however. It was half filled with the simple soup the healers were fond of—nine parts water, salt, and herbs, one part assorted boiled beans and vegetables ground into a fine paste. There was no spoon.

"Eat." Dwalin nodded at the broth, voice gruff and a challenging glint in his eye. "Balin'll be here soon with business for you to see to." Having apparently said his piece, Dwalin showed Thorin his back and stood like a stone sentinel, arms crossed, glaring, Thorin imagined, at one canvas wall. With a frustrated growl—he would pry no answers from Dwalin now—Thorin tested the weight of the wooden bowl in his hands.

He was weaker than he supposed, arms trembling to lift the bowl the mockingly short distance to his lips when before they'd wielded hammer and sword untiringly for hours. It took all his concentration not to spill the soup. Thorin knew he should be grateful for the first food he'd been able to feed himself in days, maybe weeks, a warming broth that was nourishing as well as tastier by far than Óin's medicines, and that Dwalin hadn't decided to set him a harder task, with a larger bowl or, worse, a full one, contents hotter. But it'd never been in Thorin to be satisfied counting his blessings. His hands clenched around the bowl, shaking, as he fought to tip it high enough to drink the dregs.

When he was finally finished, his strength sapped, he would've dropped the bowl end over end had not firm, callused hands cupped his, steadying his tired fingers against the sanded wood. "You'll do," said Dwalin, tugging the bowl from Thorin's unresisting grasp with a strange, quiet care. Thorin's heart stuttered, remembering a younger Dwalin meticulously cleaning rent armor and broken weapons of blood in the sun-silvered waters of the Kibil-nâla. So that the slain could be accorded all honors upon the funeral pyres, he'd explained, thumb rubbing slow circles over a dent in Fundin's helm, washing away grime until the metal glistened.

"Dwalin, _tell me_—" But Dwalin had turned towards the entrance. Where, Thorin was startled to see, stood Balin, hair a white halo around his face, his expression grave. Without another word, Dwalin left them, a slump in his usually straight back and the bluff, bracing presence that had filled the tent when he first arrived nowhere in evidence, subdued. He clasped his brother's shoulder momentarily in parting. He did not once glance at Thorin.

Balin seated himself on the stool at Thorin's bedside, movements careful. For all that he was the oldest of Thorin's companions, a promising young councilor, whose talent for diplomacy had already been marked, in the service of Thorin's grandfather when Thorin was but a stripling, Balin had never looked so weary as he did now. His skin was paper-thin in the light, fragile and webbed with cracks, sleepless nights of worry etched in deep lines on his brow and at the pulled down corners of his mouth. Thorin tensed as he waited for the blows to come, his breathing shallow. Balin, at least, spared him the agony of asking again, desperate for even bad news.

More than a week, almost two, had passed since the battle. Thorin had lain unconscious for most of that time—at the advice of the Elven healers who wrested him from death's grip, Balin told him, to lessen the pain of his recovery and the stresses on his mending body—in the camp on the edges of Dale with the other grievously wounded. The bulk of the Elven army and the Men of arms who were still able had removed farther south and west in close pursuit of the fleeing goblins, that had not drowned in the River Running. By Thranduil's latest messengers, they'd driven their routed foe into the marshes about the Forest River, where it was expected the greater part of the fugitives would shortly be slain. The survivors, wrote the Elvenking, were free to make their escape into the trees. There they would be hunted at leisure by the roving forest patrols, if they did not fall prey to Mirkwood's darker denizens first or simply perish of thirst and hunger in the trackless shadows.

While no love did Thorin bear for the Wood Elves or their king, whose haughty voice grated at his patience even heard thirdhand, their hatred for the goblins could not be questioned, burning cold and bitter. Thranduil would not rest until the blades of his warriors had been stained black with the blood of every last goblin in these lands. _Good_, Thorin thought viciously. On ridding the world of this blight, he and the Elvenking agreed.

Dáin was dead. Fallen in his defense.

His cousin had fought to reach his side, red ax hewing a path through the enemy, when Thorin finally succumbed to the injuries he'd sustained in his final combat with Azog. _May the carrion crows feast on his pale carcass._ Dáin had stood his ground against the pack of wargs that came ravening. Mounted upon their backs was Bolg's guard, orcs of monstrous size wielding steel scimitars, tasked by Bolg with retrieving his father's body and taking the head of his father's killer. One after another, orc and warg died beneath Dáin's ax, until he was spattered black from iron helm to iron-shod boots. He bled from dozens of cuts, large and small, swaying on his feet in hurt or exhaustion or both, when Bolg himself dealt the fatal blow.

Thorin had been saved the same fate and Dáin avenged by Beorn. The skinchanger had appeared unlooked for, in his bear shape, and crushed Bolg with a single snap of his great jaws, his wrath a living thing that doubled, trebled his size until he seemed a giant. He bore Thorin to safety out of the fray, then swiftly returned to it, the tide of the battle turning.

The goblins, now leaderless and with Beorn moving unopposed through their ranks like a scythe through ripe wheat, broke formation, scattering in all directions, seized by a senseless terror. And so began the relentless chase of many days. Thorin listened in amazement as Balin recounted what was already becoming known among the more poetically inclined Men as the Battle of Five Armies. Never would he have guessed that isolated, reclusive Beorn would rush to the rescue of the beleaguered armies of Elves, Men, and Dwarves. Nor that the Eagles would marshal their forces and fly from their eyries high in the Misty Mountains with numbers not seen since the Elder Days. _Truly, worthy deeds that will live long, celebrated in tale and song._ It was reckoned by some that fully three-quarters of the Wilderland's orcs and goblins had been put to the sword, though Balin felt that overoptimistic.

As for Dáin, Thorin found that, saddened as he was by his cousin's death, he was not grieved. Durin's heirs had ever died hard and often young in this darkening age, and Dáin had not gone quietly but standing tall, his bloodied ax in hand, the bodies of his slain foes strewn at his feet like so much chopped kindling in a deed that would be told and retold over many a tankard of ale in many a hall, inn, and tavern. _Durin's folk will see to that_, thought Thorin. _And Beorn tells of how Dáin lived to see his vengeance upon Bolg._ Thorin hoped Dáin had breathed his last knowing that the day was won and Erebor reclaimed for their people.

"Dáin lay in state for three days in the upper audience chamber," reported Balin, "which, fortunately, was in need of no more than a thorough scrubbing and replacement of the hangings with some Nori had dug up out of storage." Thorin remembered that room, a smaller version of the Gallery of Kings on the lower levels, generally used for more intimate occasions when the King Under the Mountain was hosting his closest kinsmen, and deemed it fitting. "The Company took turns standing the watches as honor guard, alongside Dáin's surviving captains."

"And what arrangements have been made for Dáin's burial?" Thorin asked. He would gladly see his cousin laid to rest deep beneath the Mountain but was uncertain whether Dáin's widow and son—his namesake, Thorin dimly realized—would prefer that their fallen lord be brought home to the Iron Hills that he'd ruled for over a century and Náin and Grór before him.

Balin's ear, as always, did not miss the unspoken. "Dáin's wish was to be entombed beside his father and grandfather," he said. "An escort of twenty-four left a week past to bear his body back to the Iron Hills." Of the some six hundred Dwarves Dáin had led, a third had fallen on the field of battle and been buried under stone cairns in the eastern foothills of the Mountain, from where they could greet the dawn each morning and gaze homewards.

The enemy dead were yet being cleared from the ruins of Dale in their thousands and consigned by the cartload to the cleansing flames of a mass pyre far downwind of the camp. Burning day and night, the fires had been started with and were fed from Erebor's vast stores of lamp oil rather than the precious little wood that survived in the Desolation. These unlikely trees included stunted apple orchards that Bard nonetheless hoped might one spring blossom again and fruit.

Another overoptimistic view of the future, perhaps, but no one begrudged the Lakemen their plans to resettle Dale. Not with hundreds of husbands, fathers, and sons upon the slow funeral barges that were rafted down the River Running by the Elves, who had no small number of their own slain to lay to rest in the cool shade of their beloved beeches. Balin's voice cracked when he spoke of the dirges the Elves sang as they went about their solemn duty. An unearthly sound it was, he told Thorin, eyes distant. Their fair immortal voices carried over the water, clear as cut crystal and rounded smooth, the lilting, weaving notes of the melody lingering in the air long after they'd passed, like a ringing of silver bells in an empty room walled in seamless, flawless stone. The work crews would stop to listen, even the Dwarves, who mourned in silence by custom. Their songs were meant for the living alone, whether raucous drinking tunes or melancholy hymns full of memory.

Shaking his head and refocusing, Balin continued, "The work crews have made quick progress clearing the barricade and debris from the front entrance and hall. From surveys of the adjoining rooms, we will not be without sound shelter this winter, but the damage done to the treasure chambers and foundries by Smaug while pursuing us is... considerable."

Then, incredibly, a hint of a smile, frail and tremulous, curled in Balin's beard. Thorin was heartened to see this slightest sign that his old friend's sly humor was not lost. "The gold plating the floor in the Gallery of Kings must be removed, as well, of course. It is far too soft a metal to stand wear and a distracting temptation besides to every visitor who would make off with a chunk or two." Thorin grimaced at that, feeling chagrined, though he could hardly be blamed for not thinking of the cleanup at the time, a live and _angry_ dragon at his heels.

Expression grave once again, Balin said, "There is also some... dissatisfaction among Dáin's followers." At Thorin's sharp glance, he added hastily, "They are all of them loyal Dwarves and true—of that, there can be no doubt—and they are agreed that, had a bargain not been struck with Bard, leaving the Arkenstone in the hands of those who'd come by it against the king's will and laid siege to the Mountain... Those were insults that could not be borne." Balin paused, stroking his beard in what Thorin had learned years ago was a nervous gesture. "But since the battle, there has been much converse between the armies, and having heard of events in Laketown and of the parley before the gates from the Men, many have begun to wonder how it is that the Arkenstone found its way to Bard and _why_."

Thorin rubbed a weak hand over his face. _And so the mistakes of the past continue to haunt me._ His fears were realized when Balin finished, "There are murmurings, though quiet still, of Thrór's name and of Thráin's. And of the folly of the march on Khazad-dûm, his opposition to which Dáin has never sought to hide."

Dwalin and Glóin had both been privately furious at Dáin's refusal to support Thorin's quest, holding his decision to be cowardly, borderline treasonous, and Balin disappointed, if not surprised. While Thorin had hoped for more than a promise of reinforcements should he prove successful, neither could he condemn Dáin's caution. Unlike all his cousins but Thorin himself, Dáin had to look first and foremost to his people. The Dwarves of the Iron Hills had answered an exiled King Under the Mountain's call to arms before and mustered their strength to reclaim an ancestral home long lost to a terrible evil...

_To meet with failure and death._ Thrór, Thráin, Frerin, Fundin—they were not the only losses the House of Durin suffered that day. Náin, too, had fallen, leading a score of warriors on a sortie that reached the very doorstep of Moria. None but his son lived. And of what he saw in Moria's black depths, Dáin refused to speak, save for once the morning after the battle, his face gray, to counsel that entering Khazad-dûm be put from their minds. _"Within the shadows, a greater shadow waits for us still that cannot be overcome by any power of ours."_

_Durin's Bane_, Thorin mused. The ancient foe that had driven them in flame and smoke from their great kingdom, lurking in the darkness. _Just as Smaug did. And not by Dwarves was the dragon slain._ That his part was less one of hero than that of villain was a bitter realization. His surety in the rightness of his actions had burned fever-hot through every fiber of his being when he treated with his enemies at the gates, his grandfather's crown heavy upon his head, but now he doubted, wondering whether that fire was fueled by greed instead of outrage.

When three days and three nights had gone with no sign of the dragon, a premonition of Smaug's fate crept into Thorin's heart, the silhouette of the windlance against a leaden sky clear in his mind and the grim visage of Girion's heir, hands steady as he peered down the length of an arrow at what had so unexpectedly washed up on the banks of the Forest River. Bilbo argued then that one or two of the Company should be sent to Laketown to see how matters stood there. Glóin had offered to make the daylong trip, as had Bifur and Bombur, but Thorin dissuaded them, saying that he needed their eyes to search for the Arkenstone, without which he had not the authority to summon the clans unchallenged to Erebor's defense, whether against Smaug or the treasure seekers who'd rob them of all that their people had labored to build once word spread that the dragon's hoard lay unguarded.

"We can do nothing for them now," he'd said gently to Bilbo and Glóin's worried faces, Bifur and Bombur at their sides in silent support. "Let us finish the task we set out to do and make safe the Mountain. If"—fear for Fíli and Kíli threatened to choke him but, no, _no_, he refused to believe his sister-sons dead—"they live still, they will know to come here."

After a tense moment, Glóin nodded reluctantly, Bifur and Bombur deferring to his judgment, as well; Bilbo was pale, lips pressed into a thin, unhappy line, but he did not ask of Laketown or of those left behind again. Their discontent showed only in how, though they scoured the heaps of gold and silver, gems, and other precious things for the Arkenstone with Thorin, when time came to rest, they climbed the ramparts above the main gates in unspoken agreement and looked southwards. Visible on the horizon past the ruins of Dale was the blue smear of Long Lake, a hazy plume of smoke rising above it.

Part of Thorin wanted to join them in their vigil, hands flat on the parapet so he could lean out, eyes straining for a glimpse of Fíli's bright hair, Kíli at his brother's side. Walking with a bit of a limp, perhaps, but unaided and growing stronger with each step towards home. But Thorin would not allow himself the comfort of clinging to his hopes. Not when he had a kingdom to secure for them all.

And so he spent his waking hours in the treasure chambers, sifting through his grandfather's vast wealth—his, now—handful by handful, stopping only to eat and sleep, his gaze still hunting for a fugitive glimmer of radiant white as he chewed his meals of tasteless _cram_ and his bed an uncomfortable one of gold. He found many a wondrous example of his people's craft but never that most valuable jewel he sought. As more and more time passed with the Arkenstone remaining hidden from his sight, a knot of anger twisted in his chest, until he raked through the gold piled atop glittering gold, hands claws. Had he not done enough? Suffered enough sorrows and been denied enough in the hardscrabble years following Erebor's loss? Why then, after he'd at last reclaimed his grandfather's halls, was this affirmation of his victory and right to rule withheld from him?

Balin had tried once to draw him away from his increasingly feverish search; Thorin, to his shame, could not recall what he'd said, except that it'd been undeservingly harsh, accusing. More than once, he caught Bilbo standing on a ledge or staircase above, watching him with dark eyes, face tense and one hand in his pocket, the other fisted at his side. _Was that when I lost his trust?_ He'd felt abandoned by his company, though in truth they were at his side no matter their reservations, and convinced himself that none but his closest kin, his heirs, could understand.

Yet when Fíli and a healed Kíli finally arrived, Bofur, Óin, and two armies at their heels, barely had the joyous greetings been exchanged before Thorin found himself at odds with them both. While they would never be so disrespectful as to flout their king's commands, it was clear that their wills were matched against their uncle's.

Fíli implored Thorin to hear Bard out, that the honor of a man who'd open his home—for no other reason than that Kíli was hurt, when everybody else had turned them away—to the companions of one he'd recently and publicly quarreled with could be trusted. But Thorin knew his nephew well, and what he saw in Fíli's eyes, so like Frerin's, was guilt. Fíli's own acute sense of honor would demand repayment of the debt he felt was owed Bard. For the orcs they'd led unwittingly to his children, for his slaying of Smaug, and for his later warning that they leave before the Master of Laketown roused sentiment against them. Thorin, however, denied that a few good deeds, the chiefest of which was as much self-serving as it was selfless, excused the affront of leading an army to another's home with the intent of thievery.

Worse was Kíli. Who dared suggest that the Elves might have come arrayed for war on behalf of their allies, the Men of Esgaroth, rather than seeing them for the opportunistic robbers they were, whose sole aim was to loot a treasure they had no claim to. "They are not without compassion, Uncle," Kíli had said quietly, and Thorin could not help but suspect that the redheaded she-Elf who saved Kíli's life had also bewitched him, ensnared with her enchantments his youthful spirit that loved all things seemingly fair and brave. Even if Thorin had been able to believe that one singular Elf could shed the disdain of her race to care for a mortal, much less a Dwarf, it was Thranduil who marched on their gates, and the Elvenking's heart was as ice, as hard and gleaming cold as the white gems he so coveted. He would not hesitate to use the plight of the Men to win his prize, exploiting Thorin's mercy and generosity.

Kíli had listened as Thorin instructed him on the realities of their situation, a stubborn set to his jaw, then said, "So you would deny the Lakemen aid until they come to us as beggars? You once told us of how the Elves refused our people succor when we were homeless and starving, yet you would be no better should you turn from those in need now because, having lost much, they would not sacrifice their pride, too." His voice had risen, his eyes flashing with the temper that was so like Thorin's own, which stirred in response. "And why should they? When, where _we_ have failed and failed again, _they_ killed the dragon that would've come back to kill _you!_"

Thorin's expression must have been terrible in his wrath, sudden as a spring storm, for Kíli almost quailed, before tipping his chin up, defiant. Now, the memory made Thorin queasy, wishing he could hide his face until he was alone again but knowing he hadn't the strength, his arm trembling. Letting his hand fall back down onto the blankets, he stared at his open palm. He did not like to think that he was the type who'd strike his kin in anger, but he'd been gripped then by a convulsion of emotion such as he'd never felt except in the heat of battle, his blood boiling at a threat to what was his. Fíli had stepped between Thorin and Kíli, head bowed.

"Forgive my brother his hasty words, Uncle," he'd said. "We made all speed to reach you with this news, and he is overtired, weak still from his sickness." Kíli swallowed and looked away, teeth gritted, but did not protest. At Thorin's nod, Fíli continued, "We shall, as ever, abide by your will in this and all matters of state." There was a distance in Fíli's voice, a polite deference that named Thorin _king_ and a stranger.

_Amends_, he thought. _I must make amends._ What had become of his vow, sworn as he watched, helpless, Thrór pay more mind to his treasure than to his kingdom, not to fall prey to the same madness? Yet here he was, in his grandfather's place, Fíli and Kíli cast in his, though bolder than he ever was. His stomach lurched again. He still didn't know if Fíli and Kíli were well. _If they lived..._ No, he refused to believe his sister-sons dead. He would see Fíli's bright hair at the tent entrance one morning, Kíli at his brother's side, to wake him with twin grins of delight, their youth tempered but untarnished. The half-remembered sound of Ori crying softly at his bedside echoed in his ears, mocking.

"—deal your treasure well, honoring all contracts, and that the Dwarves of the Iron Hills will receive weregild for their blood, reward for their fealty." Thorin blinked; Balin had been advising him on the appeasement of Dáin's followers, his face expectant, as Thorin wandered lost in the past. _I have failed enough in my duty._ He set aside his worries for Fíli and Kíli with a wrench, their absence like a missing limb, and forced himself to consider what he knew of the Iron Hills.

"Many of those who fled Erebor settled in the Iron Hills," he said slowly, "and are welcome to return or stay as they wish. I will not refuse the service of any Dwarf who seeks to restore the Mountain to its former glory, and the lords of the Iron Hills can expect seats on my council, as befits their rank and our kinship." Dáin's political skill, which had always been subtler and lighter in touch than Thorin's, was going to be much missed in the days to come. "Though... I do not think such rich deposits of ore should be abandoned. The steelsmiths of the Iron Hills are without equal, and I would see both realms attain the prosperity of old, before the shadow of the dragon darkened the Mountain's slopes, when the Dwarves of Erebor and markets of Dale were ever glad to have the works of Grór's people."

Balin nodded his approval, and Thorin let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "I'll send a raven at once," said Balin. They'd been fortunate to find the birds still roosting in the guardpost on the heights of Ravenhill. Despite the great age of some of the ravens—one large bird in particular was bald and partially blind, flapping ponderously among the rocks—they'd proved reliable messengers to the Iron Hills, bringing Dáin in the nick of time.

For the barest moment, Balin hesitated, eyes sliding away from Thorin. "There are a few other matters that I fear cannot wait—" As if to make up for his lapse, Balin's tone was brisk and no-nonsense when he resumed, but Thorin did not think him surprised so much as resigned when he stopped Balin mid-sentence with a raised hand.

He frowned at Balin's pinched look. Stubborn and independent-minded as Dwarves were on the whole—heads as hard as the stone of their halls, according to some—loyalty to family and clan was the foundation of their culture, wound through their very bones and sinews from birth. While internecine power struggles marred the annals of Elves and Men, that was not the way of the Dwarves. To be King of Durin's Folk was to be as a father to all Durin's descendants, the eldest brother of seven, and whatever squabbles might arise between siblings or parent and child, there could be no open strife between kin, for that was the worst of wars. On this, every Dwarf agreed. _Even Grandfather._

"We have bled for you and will again," Dáin had said to him before they parted where Durin the Deathless first marveled at the stars mirrored in the waters of the Kheled-zâram. And there had been nothing grudging in his cousin's voice nor in the strong clasp of Dáin's hand on his arm. No tinge of accusation, as in the farewells of the Dwarves from the clans farther east, bitter for their losses. How grateful he was then for Dáin's grounding presence! The name Oakenshield settling like a mantle about his shoulders, heavy with the gazes of those who saw upon his head his grandfather's crown, and grief lodged in his chest, sharp and tearing, he'd found that he could breathe easier in the knowledge that this most influential of his kin, of the line to which the kingship would pass should Thrór's fail, still stood stalwart beside Durin's heir despite the ills that had befallen them.

_And so he spoke truly_, Thorin thought with a pang. It was difficult to credit that Dwarves sworn to Dáin would show so little regard for how his cousin felt in life, causing trouble beyond grumbling. _For what else could give Balin such anxiety?_ Veteran of countless hundreds of council room battles, some of which had near ended with an ax embedded in the table or a fellow councilor's thick skull, Balin was acting skittish as a lad upon the eve of his first skirmish, restless fingers smoothing one tail of his beard, then the other. "Have you another suggestion?" Thorin asked mildly.

"I..." Balin swallowed, head bowing as if the weight was suddenly too much for his neck. "There is another way to ease tensions, but..." His words were halting, choked with an emotion that Thorin feared to name. This was more personal than ensuring good relations with the Dwarves of the Iron Hills, and part of Thorin shied at the realization, an icy hand squeezing his heart. _I am not my father._ After a pause that stretched like a fraying rope between them, neither willing to let go, Balin said weakly, "It is... a delicate matter that can wait for a later time." He struggled to meet Thorin's eyes, and when he did, it was with a silent plea.

Thorin's throat was dry, and his tongue felt swollen, stuck to the roof of his mouth. He could press Balin for answers, he knew, as he'd meant to with Ori and with Dwalin, but... He was not ready. "Very well, Balin." Not ready to learn that... He ruthlessly cut the thought off.

Immediately, there was a relief of pressure in his chest, but it only left him sickened, wanting to retch as the growing hiss in his ears—_coward, you coward_—slithered around his neck like a noose, tightening. "What more is there to see to?" he demanded, hating how desperate he sounded. Balin didn't flinch at his clipped tone, merely nodding and continuing, his mask of composure fixed firmly back in place.

"The Arkenstone"—something in Thorin shivered at the name, the music in it calling to him despite everything—"is still in Bard's possession, and he would return it to you before he leaves for Laketown on the morrow." Longing punched him hard in the gut, driving the breath from him. Though he was dimly aware of Balin watching him closely, the glow of the Arkenstone, the Heart of the Mountain, was blinding in his mind's eye, streaming white through his fingers and limned in flickering arcs of color, rainbows trapped in crystal. He tensed. His hands burned with the phantom sensation of gold coins sliding clinking over his skin, cold metal warming at his touch, and a furious panic clawed at his insides, crying _where, where is it_.

But a voice sought him out in the dark beneath the Mountain, where all that shone was gold. _"Thorin!"_ It was Bilbo. He looked at Thorin with beseeching eyes, his hair whipped into tangles by a gust of wind. _"Thorin, I... did not mean, _want_ to betray you, but... But you are not yourself! Would you have us and your, your cousin, when he gets here, die for a, a _rock_ that's not needed anymore?"_ Why was Bilbo backing away from him? _"The dragon is dead! The Mountain is yours! You..."_ Bilbo, with his clever mind and his courageous heart, large enough to hold thirteen Dwarves, was not made to sound so small, no matter his slight frame. _"You have a _home_ again, Thorin, and your family, maybe friends, if you would just bend a little. Isn't that worth all the treasure in Erebor?"_ The question was a wavering one, uncertain. And Thorin saw his own hands, fingers hooked into talons, reach for Bilbo and the bared curve of his neck, outlined against the sky.

His eyes snapped open at the brush of a hand against his shoulder. "Thorin," Balin said gently, "do you need to rest?" He was panting harshly, a thin film of sweat cooling on his brow; he shivered. Balin fretted beside him, but the memory of Bilbo struggling in his grasp as Thorin dragged him to the edge of the ramparts, intending to cast him down the sheer face of the Mountain to join the other thieves at the gates, was nearer still. _I would've smiled to hear him scream._ Would've been glad to see Bard's expression of shock and the Elvenking's when that body, the size of a child's, landed at their feet in a crumple of broken bones. "We can—"

"_No._" Had he been stronger, his guilt and shame not crushing him like a vise, he would've shouted his denial. "No, we do this _now_." His nails dug into the palms of his clenched hands; Thorin hoped they cut deep. Bloody crescents that might scar into reminders of what he deserved.

The Arkenstone had been a beacon in the yawning vastness of the first King Under the Mountain's great hall, drawing every eye to it and the throne upon which it spilled its light most brightly, but Bilbo was right. Possession of a rock, though the finest, rarest jewel ever mined from the earth, did not make one fit to wear a crown. Honor, compassion, fairness of judgment and dedication to duty, love enough not to risk people and kingdom for the cause of petty pride—such were the marks of a ruler whose rule was wise and just. When had his grandfather forgotten that? _And when did I?_

Exhaustion was beginning to weigh down his limbs, pain stabbing behind his eyes. Perhaps, he thought, mirthlessly, his head would burst like an overripe tomato, sparing him this scouring of his sins. Balin's look of concern had not diminished; he needed to regain control of himself. "Bard is in camp?" Thorin asked, seeking a distraction and not a little surprised. He did not take Bard for a man who'd send the soldiers under his command to chase after orcs and goblins without him. There was but one possibility in Thorin's mind. "How badly was he injured?"

While Balin stared at him in a pointed statement of who else had required the services of the healers, he did not refuse Thorin an answer, for which he was grateful. He'd rather hear of Bard's troubles than Bilbo's wet gasp as the soft flesh of his belly parted on the edge of Thorin's sword, Thorin pulling him close, his labored breathing a stutter in Thorin's ear, to pluck the Arkenstone from his pocket. _A lie. I did not..._ The butchered meat that slid from his blade was not worth even a last glance; he had eyes only for the Arkenstone, _oh_, the Arkenstone, red and slippery in his hands, _finally_. "Tell me of Bard," he said hoarsely, swallowing bile.

Bard had indeed been wounded, but not badly enough, it seemed, for his enforced inactivity to sit well. A cleanly broken arm and bruised ribs had kept him from joining the pursuit; the morning after the battle, he could not don his coat without blanching, unable to hide how much he hurt. The Elvenking himself drugged the man into insensibility, or so Balin heard, then set an Elven guard on him, with strict instructions not to let him travel farther than Dale and certainly not to Laketown, as he wished to when he woke, angry and agitated.

"He was... insistent that he had to return to his children," said Balin, gaze dropping to his knees, where his hands curled loosely. Thorin wondered whether he, too, recalled the high, sweet voice of the girl who'd welcomed them into Bard's home, cramped and roughly built but warm, by asking if they would bring her family luck. "Not until he spoke with Thranduil's couriers did he consent to rest."

_Dragonfire and ruin._ Thorin kneaded the ridge of his nose. _That is all I've brought the Men of the Lake._ He'd excused his dismissal of Bard's claims as the only response a king could give to men who would steal by force of arms what should be asked for. Yet would he have honored his promise of gold enough to rebuild Esgaroth ten times over had the Elves retreated, the Men laid down their weapons? He did not know...

Thorin scoffed. _I was reluctant to pay the cost of a few boats, weapons, and ill-fitting clothes._ Nor could he blame Bard for his lack of trust, for Kíli was right, and Thorin had spit on Thranduil's word after the Elves showed themselves indifferent to his people's suffering. The same callousness he'd shown the Lakemen, consumed by his search for the Arkenstone, in the week of silence following Smaug's death. _And..._ The Elvenking did not wake the beast and point it towards its unsuspecting victims, filled with ire. Thorin closed his eyes, wincing, hand rubbing weakly over his face. Why had he tried to deny all responsibility for the failure of his plans? What had he been _thinking?_

Short were the lives of Men and their vision limited, that of poor men even more so, easily swayed by sweet talk in the present but blind to the inevitabilities of the future. Smaug was cruel and capricious, bowing to no master, except perhaps his own greed. Laketown had always been at the mercy of a monster notorious for having none, whether the attack came in a year or generations later. _But it was I who chose _these_ people, in _this_ time to bear Smaug's wrath._

Was there not a single deed to his name in the fortnight before the battle that was _right_, wholly and truly? He could not blame all on the dragon sickness either, for he had been himself, just the worst parts, stripped of nobility; Bilbo was wrong about that.

"Let him keep that cursed stone." The words were as much a shock to Thorin as they were to Balin, interrupting an account of Bard's walking surveys of Dale, shadowed by a watchful Elf. But the longer Thorin considered the idea, the more he felt it to be _right_. "May it bring him better fortune than me and mine."

What good had the Arkenstone done Thrór, stoking his desire for gold until pride became arrogance? _Or me?_ King and kingdom both would be the stronger without the delusion that whoever held a _rock_, treacherous for all its beauty and allure, was somehow ordained to rule and beyond question. It would be hard to win the acceptance of his people for this, though Erebor's wealth was his to divide, the Arkenstone being no exception. Bard could, however, be convinced quicker than any Dwarf to rid everyone of the ill-fated jewel, Thorin judged, willing as he'd been to exchange it for practical gold and silver.

Balin had stilled. He cleared his throat and, expression neutral, said carefully, "Do you not intend to honor your bargain with Bard?" For a moment, Thorin was confused. Then he groaned, slumping tiredly. He'd forgotten that not only had Bard asked for a ransom but that he had agreed to pay it. For the Arkenstone's return. A fourteenth of the dragon's hoard, excluding gems, he remembered. Bilbo's contracted share of the quest's profits.

"No, I did not mean..." Suddenly, Thorin laughed, low and bitter, at this irony. When he had wanted nothing in the world so keenly as the Arkenstone, it eluded him, remaining tauntingly out of his reach in the hands of others, but now that he'd gladly see it lost to some far corner of Rhûn or the depths of the sea, events were conspiring to force it into his possession. He could not even say that this farce was unexpected; his life of late had seemed one endless series of such humbling lessons.

"Bard shall have his due," Thorin finally said, voice a rasp. _And more_, he thought, for it'd been out of spite alone that he'd denied Bard any of the innumerable gems scattered amidst the gold and silver, often wrought into fine jewelry, arms and armor, tableware. "Have the gold sorted to send to Laketown. As much as Bard requires, though"—Thorin winced again; the survivors of Smaug's attack would be lucky to have food and shelter enough to stave off death this winter—"offer to him the continued use of Erebor's vaults to keep safe his share of the treasure. The Arkenstone..." He had not the will to fight anymore. "I would be pleased to receive it from him," he lied, defeated.

"I'll let Bard know," said Balin, eyes worried as he searched Thorin's face. "Now, I think it would be best for you to rest until supper." Balin had the air of one who'd come to a difficult decision and was hurrying to see it through before he could change his mind. "We can speak again later." He studiously avoided Thorin's gaze as he made to rise from his seat.

"Balin." He was not ready. But neither did Thorin want to cling to his hopes any longer. They were a thin comfort, _false_, dread coiling in the pit of his stomach like a serpent waiting to strike. "Tell me of the Company." Balin sighed, almost inaudibly, the frown lines at the corners of his mouth deepening. In the sag of his shoulders, the stiffness of his spine, Thorin read reluctance... and grief—a bottomless well of it. "If the news is ill," he said, the words lodging in his throat, "I would rather hear it sooner than later."

He felt brittle as hardened steel left in the cold, invisible fractures webbing his skin, but he straightened and firmed his expression into one of grim resolve. Sheer bravado, he knew, weakness thrumming through his veins, and it did not fool Balin. With a silent curse at being bedridden—he would not be able to catch Balin by the arm or follow should he choose to flee—Thorin surrendered what little pride remained to him and begged. "Balin, _please_." Looking stricken and unutterably weary, Balin nodded.

At first, the news was good. Bofur, Óin and Glóin, Dori, Nori, and Ori—Balin confirmed that they all lived and were well, healing in Ori's case from a broken ankle. Óin had taken charge of the wounded, consulting closely with the Elven healers who stayed when Thranduil marched with most of his strength, and Glóin was managing the sorting of the treasure, which had started the very next day after the battle in anticipation of Thorin honoring his bargain with Bard. No Dwarf spent more than a few hours at a time with the gold, however, Balin assured him, not even Glóin.

Everybody was arranged into shifts instead that rotated daily between repair work on the Mountain's stone halls, supply and salvage, kitchen duties, guard patrols, and burial details. Bombur ruled meal preparations with an iron ladle, by the accounts of his cowed helpers, Bifur and Bofur aiding and abetting his culinary reign of terror, when they weren't hauling stone to erect the new support columns in the entrance hall. Dori could frequently be found caring for Óin's patients, not least because Ori was among them, but was just as often at Nori's side as he cleared and appraised the contents of Erebor's countless storage rooms, marked and hidden. And Dwalin's sadistic glee at startling inattentive sentries at their posts was fast becoming legend, he and Dáin's captains determined to keep the camp in readiness for attack by the goblin stragglers reported to have fled east.

"Bilbo is well, running messages for me," Balin said, and Thorin breathed a sigh of relief, a knot under his sternum loosening. "He was missing on the battlefield for half a day before one of the Men found him. And he got a bit knocked about on the head." When Thorin tensed in alarm, seeing curls of hair red with blood, Balin added hastily, "Which is by now _quite_ healed, upon the word of Óin, Gandalf, _and_ the Elves."

_Has he asked after me? Been to see me?_ The questions were on the tip of his tongue; Thorin bit down on them. Bilbo would be well within his rights to demand that Thorin never speak to him again, never again come into his sight. He closed his eyes—they were stinging—and tried to reconcile himself to the loss of a friendship that, though short and troubled, much of it his own doing, had been alight with the fragile promise of something good and lasting.

_"I do believe the worst is behind us."_ That dawn upon the Carrock had been lovelier than any in more years than Thorin cared to count. Forgotten was the pain of his wounds, Azog's hated face, sneering at him as trees flamed around them like torches in the night, when the sunrise touched the Lonely Mountain's peak with rosy fingers. They descended the rocks, singing, the blue dome of the sky brightening above them and hope high in their hearts, and Bilbo was close by his side then, a shy smile tucked into the corners of his mouth, the cheer of the Company, even Gandalf's grumbling, enfolding them. But there were shadows waiting for them at the foot of the mountains, a chill mist hanging in the air, and the darkness of Mirkwood, the waters of Long Lake, and finally the echoing halls of Erebor had been colder still, cold as gold sliding over his skin.

"Thorin." The sound of his name was jarring despite Balin's gentle tone. "Bilbo sits with you every night, after Óin's tonic has put you to sleep. We usually have to come here to wake him in the mornings." Humbled anew, Thorin stared blinking at the blankets, imagining Bilbo's hand, soft except for tentative calluses from Sting, curled atop them next to his. "He's afraid you haven't forgiven him for the Arkenstone." Balin's voice was filled with affection and exasperation, as was the gaze he turned on Thorin as Thorin sat stunned into speechlessness. _How could Bilbo think that, when I nearly killed him in my madness?_

"It is _I_ who must ask _his_ forgiveness," said Thorin. He glanced uncertainly at Balin, his heart a trapped moth in his throat. "Will he see me? To talk?" If Bilbo refused to allow him to make amends... He didn't know what he would do.

"Aye, I reckon he will." Balin's smile was small but reassuring, and the fluttering settled in his chest as if he'd caught the moth in his cupped hands, delicate wings a tickle against his palms. _I can take back my words and deeds at the gates._ Though their friendship may be nothing more than memory, he and Bilbo could part in kindness, and for that Thorin was grateful.

For a while, there was silence, unbroken except for the faint noises of camp beyond the tent. Thorin was no fool, no matter how badly he'd acted one; he hadn't failed to note whose names Balin had not mentioned. Perhaps one or the other was grievously wounded and had yet to wake, the hopes of recovery dwindling with every passing day. Perhaps both had been maimed, lost limbs or senses or wits. _Perhaps..._

But, no, the hollowness that grew in him as he again saw sorrow's hand heavy upon Balin told him otherwise. "What of Fíli? Kíli?" He managed to keep his voice level until the end, when Balin looked away, swallowing a choked sob, as clear an answer as anything he could've said.

Fíli was dead. Kíli was dead.

And Thorin felt nothing. Distantly, he heard how his breathing hitched, the pounding tempo of his heart erratic. It grated at his ears like a dull file across the pitted bone of his skull, and he wished he could be rid of the sound. The cot he lay on, nestled in a cocoon of bedding, was too warm and too soft, the light that seeped through the tent's canvas walls too bright, blurring the world until there was not a sharp edge anywhere to match that of the knife carving him open from throat to navel. He felt _nothing_.

Deep beneath the Mountain, there were chambers where the walls, floor, and even ceiling were inlaid with patterned bands of gold and truesilver, scenes of the world and the storied history of the Dwarves graven on the panels between by the finest stonemasons of the kingdom. Gems would flash by torchlight, tens of thousands of mirrors, each no larger than the head of a pin, but it was usually dark and quiet. Thorin wanted to stretch out on his back upon one of those smooth floors and just... _sleep_. Until his body was as cold as it was numb.

It'd been summer still when they left the Blue Mountains, the trees adorned in their richest green and autumn no more than a teasing nip in the air before each day dawned hotter than the last. Thorin would turn north on the Greenway to attend a gathering of their kin, but he and his sister-sons planned to journey together until Bree, where they expected to meet Gandalf and the rest of the Company, scattered on errands.

Kíli had been struggling to contain his excitement, Thorin remembered, at setting out on what he was sure would be the grandest adventure of his young life; he'd never been farther east than Dunland in the south, and the horror of the dragon paled in comparison to the prospect of seeing with his own eyes the Lonely Mountain of his childhood tales, its splendid halls and immense wealth. Fíli clearly felt that the momentous occasion deserved solemnity but found his brother's enthusiasm hard to resist and, before long, Thorin was beginning to dread the many leagues to Bree.

Charming and beautiful in her best clothes, their mother smiled and laughed at their antics, a sparkling net in her dark hair. As the hour came to part, she sternly commanded them to be mindful of their uncle's orders and to wear their cloaks in rain—with the hood up, Kíli—to sit close to the fire, eat well and sleep well, not let the other engage in any foolishness... before drawing each of her sons into a hug that seemed as if it didn't want to let them go.

To Thorin, she had given only her blessing, the press of her lips on the crown of his bowed head light but lingering, and a wish for the success of his quest. When he made to promise her that he would deliver her sons to her safe, she hushed him, still smiling, and deftly put him on the road, Fíli and Kíli waiting impatiently for him to join them as the sun climbed higher in the cloudless sky.

"Dís..." When he turned back, however, as his feet took him out of view over the crest of a hill, he'd caught the slump in her shoulders as she walked slowly home, her lone figure small against the looming mass of the mountains. "Has word been sent?"

He hardly recognized his own voice. Though unchanged in pitch, it had been leeched of all color, pulled and twisted into a thin thread of sound that Thorin could only be glad didn't tremble as his hands were. Frowning at his traitorous fingers, he spread his palms flat on the tense muscle of his thighs, brittle bone beneath, until the twitching urge to claw at his hair, at his face passed.

Balin looked at him like Thorin was a wounded animal, worry warring with pity in his eyes and grief a shroud over both. He hesitated, then said quietly, "Thorin—"

"Has word been sent to my sister?" Thorin cut him off, tone biting. He did not want, _deserve_, anyone's sympathy. He, who had come home once before without father and brother, had now cost Dís her sons, too, and was _not worthy_, not a fit object for any feeling but her anger. Something in him shifted at the thought, a muscle tearing loose from tendons and bone, maybe, or a ripped vein gushing with every beat of his heart, draining him and filling him at the same time with blood, thick and choking—_no_, he was _not_ hurt. He must remember that.

"No..." Balin whispered, shaking his head. "No, the ravens can't..." He didn't finish, wilting under Thorin's flinty stare. Balin meant well, Thorin knew, probably hoping to soften the blow in that deceptive way all good diplomats had of diverting the mind with meaningless pleasantries. But the world had cracked into pieces at his feet, and there was no sense in charades anymore. Not when he had seen to the rotten core of things, victory shorn of joy.

"Dwalin will leave before the snows to escort Lady Dís to Erebor in the spring," Balin finally said, speech smooth but eyes averted, "and Glóin and Bombur with him to fetch their families." He glanced at Thorin, then away again, shoulders rounding like rock beaten by water. "We thought... you might wish to send with Dwalin a letter or..."

"Yes..." Thorin mumbled, tongue swollen in his mouth. "A letter..." Ink bleeding black across yellowed parchment—Thorin could not envision words capable of containing this loss, his sister's fingers tracing the dried lines of the runes. _I should ask how..._ Yet he couldn't bring himself to supplant his last memories of Fíli and Kíli as they'd been, strong of limb and strong of heart, clad as the princes they were in gilded mail.

Pride had bloomed fierce in his breast as they filed past him to war, fearless, Fíli in the lead, Kíli half a step behind, and again in the tumult of the fighting when they alone of the Company gave thought to the formations of their erstwhile besiegers, the Elves and Men, now allies. Though the battle was going ill then, their enemies swarming in an endless dark sea, he could see glimpses of a shining future.

Fíli would be a better, greater king than he, possessed of a more even temper; his natural talent for statecraft already outstripped Thorin's, which had so often dismayed his tutors at Fíli's age. And Kíli would be Fíli's loyal right hand, as Frerin might have been his, a daring general, recklessness tempered by experience, and a charismatic adviser with Dís's effortless social graces. _I should not have let them stray from my side._ Durin's heirs they were, and they had died hard and too young.

"I'll have Nori..." Balin's voice drifted to him as if he were being hailed from a far distant shore veiled in mist, fading in and out. He would never be able to watch Fíli and Kíli learn the love of families of their own, he realized—sons and daughters to hold in their arms, nephews and nieces to smilingly spoil. Surely, they had been kissed at least? By a pretty lass they were sweet on or a handsome lad, bold as brass and blushing shy? Thorin didn't know and could not ever ask. "Thorin—" Balin again, pleading.

"If there is nothing else to see to, Balin," said Thorin, "I would now like to rest." He sounded almost normal but felt... nothing. He'd been hollowed out.

"Thorin—" Balin's expression was pained, one hand half extended towards Thorin's shoulder, silently begging permission to touch, comfort. _He need not treat me like glass._ And Thorin found that there was yet anger in him. It swelled up sudden as an avalanche in the mountains, a thundering wall of blind rage.

"_Leave me_," he hissed and looked on, unmoved, as Balin paled until his skin was the color of his beard, his eyes widening. Then Thorin stared fixedly at his hands, clenched and shaking in his lap. Finally, without another word, Balin left. _Good_, thought Thorin, even as the first tendrils of shame wrapped tight about his heart.

How long he sat there afterwards, alone and thinking of nothing, staring at nothing, he didn't know. He was startled by the rattle of a tray being placed on the ground, blinking at the gloom inside the tent. When had night fallen? With a rasping strike of a match—Thorin turned his head at the noise—Bombur lit the candles at his bedside, before arranging carefully across his lap a small table, upon which was a steaming tray of food, bowl, plate, and spoon neatly laid. Supper delivered, Bombur seemed to hesitate, tugging at the blankets where Thorin had rucked them up—his traitorous hands, scrabbling for some purchase—until Thorin was once more ensconced in a warm, soft cocoon. Another hesitation, but whatever it was Bombur wanted to say, he apparently decided otherwise, retreating as quietly as he'd come, entire body drooping.

Staring now at his supper, Thorin wondered whether he'd ever stop feeling ashamed. Accompanying the expected broth, the same that Dwalin had brought, was a pastry pie, crust baked to golden, flaky perfection. Someone had cut it into equal-sized chunks fit to his spoon, revealing the filling of finely ground meat, browned but still juicy, and minced vegetables. This was surely the work of a whole afternoon and with game scarcer as winter deepened, made to please him. _I've been an ungrateful churl._

"Bombur," he said, Bombur pausing at the tent entrance, face nervous and questioning, "it is good to see you well." Thorin cleared his throat, his voice a stiff croak from disuse, nodding at the tray before him. "Thank you. The meal looks wonderful."

Was that enough? Or had he presumed too much? His courtesies were not so refined as Balin's—_I must make amends_—but neither could he recall being this clumsy with his words, ungainly as a newborn colt and unbalanced, since he was younger than... He closed his eyes and inhaled, exhaled, one slow breath at a time.

"Thank me by eating it," Bombur said gently, and when Thorin opened his eyes, he was alone again. Determinedly, he ate, spooning mouthfuls of soup and pastry with mechanical efficiency until both bowl and plate stood empty, though he tasted nothing, all the food turned to dust on his tongue. _This meal was wasted on me_, he thought bitterly, lips twisting in loathing at this further proof that he deserved no kindness.

An hour, maybe two, later—time passed strangely, lagging one moment, slipping through his fingers the next—Thorin had another visitor. His eyes played a trick on him at first but, no, the jutting ridge of hair was taller, spikier, lighter in color than Dwalin's, which had long been shaved clean. _After Azanulbizar_, Thorin remembered. _But Dori and Ori are well..._ He had seen Ori with his own eyes, heard Dori, and Balin would deflect but not lie to him. "Nori," he said, inexplicably afraid, "your hair...?"

Nori's worried expression was overtaken by one of surprise and, to Thorin's relief, he smiled, tentative and a bit sheepish. "Ah, well," he said, rubbing a hand over his shorn skin, "I almost lost my head to a lucky goblin. Didn't see much point in keeping the one side when the other had to be cut down near to nothing..." He shrugged, affectedly casual.

"It suits you," Thorin said, trying to smile in return, though he failed in this, too, judging by how Nori's face set into rigid lines. _Better that we not pretend all is well._ "Balin said that... you'd have pen and parchment for me?" He was not certain that had, in fact, been what Balin instructed, but Nori nodded and laid at Thorin's side on the cot a stack of paper, quill and inkpot that Thorin hadn't noticed he'd been carrying.

With a small noise of satisfaction, Nori picked up the tray with its empty bowl and plate. Scrutinizing the tray with undue attention and his fingers fidgeting at its edges, he said, "I know nothing can make it right, _easier_, but..." He swallowed and trailed off. "I'll just see this back to the kitchens," he finally muttered, clearly intending to scuttle out of the tent without enlightening Thorin as to what he meant. Then Thorin glanced down at the parchment Nori had brought him.

_How...?_ The top sheets were of the fine vellum, white and luminous, used for royal edicts and other writings of importance; the hammer, anvil, and seven-starred crown was framed in an elaborate seal of darkest blue at the head of each page. His eyes burned as he thumbed the smooth, crisp paper, familiar to the touch from lazy afternoons spent in the king's private study when Frerin and Dís were still toddling, too little to peer over the ledge of Grandfather's desk.

Thrór had been an indulgent minder, allowing them to sit in his lap, curious fingers buried in his beard, as he read correspondence. His hands were big and warm, sure, around Thorin's as he taught Thorin how to fold piece after piece of thin, beautiful vellum into wondrous shapes—birds and beasts, flowers, stars and angular mysteries to draw gap-toothed grins from Frerin, giggles from Dís. This news would be ugly wrought in gold and _mithril_, studded with a hundred precious stones, but...

"My thanks, Nori," said Thorin, voice thick. "Dís will appreciate this... kindness." Nori visibly relaxed, tense shoulders sagging in relief and a tightness around his eyes, his mouth easing.

After Nori took his leave for the night with a nod, Thorin spread the parchment across the small table Bombur had brought, vellum pushed carefully into one corner so he could first compose his thoughts on paper of poorer quality. But he found himself staring uselessly at his hands instead.

What good would his words of apology and condolence do? They could not change the past nor serve as a ward against mistakes in the future, should he again fall to madness. "You are not making a very splendid figure as King Under the Mountain," Gandalf had said, tone aggrieved, at the gates. Bilbo was climbing down to join him, siding with Bard and Thranduil, head bowed as his bare hands and feet scraped across the rocks. Thorin had been furious then. _He_ was the one who'd been betrayed by false friends, besieged by thieves extorting the treasures of his people from him at swordpoint. Fate, however, had judged him to be in the wrong and exacted a punishment that...

Rubbing a weak hand over his face, Thorin fought the hitch in his breath, the back of his throat wet. He steeled himself, hollowness giving way to grim resolve, reached for the pen and, dipping it in ink, began writing. _I, Thorin son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King Under the Mountain, hereby..._

**· · ·**

He woke late the next day, ink staining his aching fingers and candles burnt down to stubs. Thorin cast a critical eye over the two letters he'd written: The second, to Dís, was spare of words and inadequate, but Thorin folded it with unsteady hands regardless to await a seal. The first, lengthier by far, was for Balin and awaited his approval; reading it was a queer comfort, a weight lifting from his shoulders that he'd grown so accustomed to it'd long become a part of him. He did not know who he would be without it. _But this is right._ And what might have been a pang of regret was swept away like snow blown into a cold, blank expanse of white by the wind.

When Bombur eventually came with the midday meal—more soup and a freshly baked roll, spread with a smidgen of blackberry jam—Thorin asked for Balin to attend him as soon as possible. Still, it was not until after Thorin had finished eating, his tray and dishes cleared briskly by Dori, already carrying a stack from his rounds of the camp, that Balin ducked into the tent.

Food sitting heavy in his stomach, an indigestible lump—it'd stuck to the roof of his mouth like wet ash as he forced himself to eat—Thorin watched unblinkingly as Balin heated a spoonful of sealing wax over a candle. "You've letters to send?" said Balin, tone light and neutral, as if he didn't know exactly what letter Thorin had to send, with what news and to whom. Shame rose in him again as he noted the careful way Balin avoided meeting his gaze, eyes red from a sleepless night.

"Yes," Thorin said, handing over his letter to Dís. "And... I owe you an apology for yesterday, as well as for the other times I've been undeservedly short with you this past month." He swallowed, thinking of the harsh words he'd answered Balin's counsel with, mind fixed on the Arkenstone. "I can make no excuses for my behavior. Except to ask that you not hold my poor temper"—Thorin smiled bitterly at this understatement—"as a reflection of my esteem of you." He found it difficult to look at Balin, head wanting to bow so he could stare at his hands instead, his remaining letter framed between them on the writing table.

Balin deftly sealed Dís's letter, impressing the dark blue wax with a silver stamp, fitted to a handle of marble veined in gold, bearing the royal emblem—courtesy of Nori, Thorin guessed—after moistening the metal end with his breath. "There is nothing to forgive," he said easily. Tucking the letter into one of the inner pockets of his robes, Balin continued, "I'll see this to Dwalin." He gave Thorin no pause to attempt another apology. "Thranduil has returned and would speak to you before he departs for Mirkwood to stay. Gandalf and Beorn would also see that you are healing well before they depart with—"

Resigned now to the fact that Balin would not let him apologize properly, Thorin was still determined to make amends. "Balin," he said, "there is a matter that needs your attention first." At Balin's puzzled expression, Thorin handed him the other letter with a quiet, "Please read it and see that all is in order."

Affection warmed him when Balin drew from one voluminous sleeve a handheld jeweler's lens to study the text more closely. That had been a habit of Balin's since his youth, though Thorin knew his vision to be perfectly adequate to the task of reading even the finest print. How often he'd seen Balin pore over some contract or dry legal treatise, squinting through a like lens as if the mysteries of the world were contained within curls and loops of ink! _But maybe never again._ This time, he didn't fight the urge to lower his eyes, feeling suddenly numb.

"Long have I thought on my actions of late," he began, subdued, "and my failures as king. The wrongs I've done my loyal friends and followers, my... dearest kin." Thorin closed his eyes, hearing and hating the way his voice cracked. He pressed on, ruthlessly. "This is not a decision I've made lightly but in the interests of Erebor's future. Dáin's son is, by all accounts, a clever lad and stout of heart, growing to be much like his father, and I've appointed you his regent, which I do not believe will be contested, being your right as the eldest of Borin's line." Balin was ominously silent; Thorin dared not look at him.

"I shall winter in the Mountain, with your permission, so that I may greet my sister when she arrives. After..." He shook his head slowly, biting the inside of his cheek. "I... It is my hope to yet be of some service to our people. An invalid though I am at present, you know I can swing a sword. I could patrol our borders or, or help train our warriors." That would not be so bad, Thorin thought. To wield his blade in defense of his home and to teach young Dwarves to love the song of steel, Dwalin at his side, but... "No... No, my presence would only undermine your rule." And he'd realized that last night as he wrote. _I can delude myself no longer._ Erebor would be lost to him once more and the Blue Mountains, too, the Iron Hills and every realm Dwarves called theirs, the road stretching endlessly before him. "Then perhaps I can journey to Rhûn, to Rohan and Gondor or parts farther south as an envoy..."

"All seems to be in order," Balin said abruptly. Thorin nodded, exhaling shakily, and finally glanced at Balin, who had put away his lens and was folding the letter into neat thirds, face impassive. Then, as Thorin watched, flabbergasted, Balin ripped it in half and half again and again until it was little better than white confetti. That he sprinkled into a small heap atop the bedside table, brushing his hands clean of clinging pieces with an air of grim satisfaction.

"_Balin—!_" Thorin gritted his teeth. It had been tortuously hard to write that letter, though the other had been far harder, each stab of his pen upon the paper echoed by an ache in his chest. His eyes were stinging by the end, whether from exhaustion or the smoke of the candles he was unsure. He did not think he could do it a second time. "You—"

"Hear me, Thorin son of Thráin, son of Thrór," interrupted Balin in a tone that brooked no argument, a steely glint in his eye. "I did not trek a thousand miles through the wilds, brave trolls, goblins, orcs, wargs, spiders, and _a dragon_, fight a war and ally with _Elves_, Men, and Eagles to help you exile yourself out of misplaced guilt. And neither did the rest of the Company." Seeing Thorin's expression of startled wariness, Balin softened. "The best way to honor them, Thorin, is to honor the cause they died for and be the king you were always meant to be."

At that, Thorin let out a sharp bark of a laugh, face twisting in loathing. "What sort of king was I meant to be, Balin? I—"

"You fell to the gold sickness, aye. Like your grandfather before you." Balin said nothing that Thorin had not already thought of himself, but still the words burned his ears, a hot flush of shame crawling up his neck, somehow seeming more real now that another had spoken them for him to hear. "That there will be consequences you and I both know well. But...

"Thorin, this burden, this _responsibility_, is not yours alone to bear." Balin sighed heavily. "The Company has talked of this. If you failed us, so, too, did we fail you." Thorin opened his mouth to deny that, but Balin forestalled him with a raised hand. "The signs of Thrór's madness were not unknown to us, yet when the same shadow began to darken your mind, not one of us had the courage to tell you. Or even to challenge your decisions, except..." _Fíli, Kíli_, thought Thorin, and he knew from the bleak shine of Balin's eyes that he also remembered.

"Well," Balin continued with an effort, "_no more_." Resolve hard in his voice and his gaze pinning Thorin in place, unable to move, he said, "We have all of us—Dwalin and I, Óin and Glóin, Bifur, Dori, Bofur, Nori, Bombur, and even young Ori—sworn to guard you from this demon.

"If it seeks to prey upon your fears, we shall stand at your side and beat it back. If you are blinded by it, we shall not watch idly as you stumble but pull you up by the hand towards the light." Balin smiled at him, tone gentling and filled with such emotion that Thorin's breath caught. "And if ever you have cause to doubt your own strength in this battle, we shall lend you ours, whatever you may require of us, until you can find yours once again." He extended his hand to clasp Thorin's shoulder, and this time he did not balk, his unwavering grip a warm comfort. "This is not a foe that can defeat us or you, Thorin, now that we know its face."

"Balin, I..." Thorin swallowed convulsively, blinking away the tears that wanted to wet his skin. What had he done to deserve this devotion? He could spend a hundred lives of Men, as many ages as the Elves had, righting all the world's wrongs and still never be worthy of this faith, that forgave so readily but didn't diminish for it. "I... I'm afraid that—"

"Do you trust us?" Balin asked simply. "We are not the best nor brightest, I admit, but..." He'd felt that he understood then, what had brought this odd collection of Dwarves—merchants, miners, tinkerers, toymakers—to the cramped table of their fussy and reluctant host. "In this, can you believe in our word?" _Loyalty, honor, and a willing heart._

Perhaps they had not been the best when they first set out on the quest, but its trials had revealed their quality, like a rich vein of truesilver running hidden in the rock, diamonds in the rough. And there was only one answer that Thorin Oakenshield could give. "Yes."

"Then all will be well." With a final reassuring squeeze of Thorin's shoulder, Balin stood, patting down his robes. "Now, you have a busy afternoon ahead of you. The Elvenking first, Gandalf and Beorn. Tomorrow, we break camp and move the remaining wounded into Erebor's halls for the winter. Do you think you can walk with assistance?" Thorin nodded dumbly, thoughts sluggish as his mind turned the Company's care over and over, awed and humbled. Balin eyed him skeptically. "I suppose we'll cross that bridge when we come to it and not a moment sooner. As is our wont." The memory of Balin's wry smile stayed with Thorin long after he left.

His next visitor was not so welcome a sight. Thranduil looked much as Thorin had seen him prior to the battle, clad in dark armor silvered like the gleam of starlight on deep waters and flowing pale hair bound at his brow with a circlet of steel, though divested of his cloak. Thorin stiffened under that coolly appraising Elven gaze, all too aware of his own weakness, but Thranduil only said, "You seem much recovered from when last I saw you."

"I understand I have your healers to thank for that," Thorin said, matching Thranduil's polite tone despite how his jaw reflexively tightened at being in debt to one he could not help but consider more enemy still than friend. The Elvenking nodded graciously, as if receiving his due. His following words, however, surprised Thorin.

"No debt stands between us, King Under the Mountain. Have no fear." The glint in Thranduil's eye was slightly mocking, and Thorin's hackles rose. Before he could speak—probably something angry and insulting, he conceded—Thranduil continued, "Your kin has already seen the debt paid, a life for a life, and at a cost I would not have wished upon you. Were it not for your sister-son—Kíli, I believe he was called—my son Legolas would be counted among the dead." While unnerving with the weight of days unnumbered, there was a softness of feeling to Thranduil's unblinking stare now, an indefinable give in the sharp lines of his face, that Thorin had never imagined they could show.

"Bosom companions you and I shall never be," said Thranduil, as Thorin sat stunned, trying hard not to gape like a fool at this glimpse of a kinder, gentler Elvenking, blunt words aside. "Yet allies we can be, Erebor and the Woodland Realm at a peace as has not been known between our peoples since before the coming of the dragon."

_"They are not without compassion, Uncle."_ Whatever his nephew's motivations for saving the life of an Elven princeling at the expense of his own, Thorin refused to squander Kíli's sacrifice out of petty pride. _Would that I could tell him he was right..._ "Yes," he said, voice a little choked. "Let us be allies, as we were of old."

And for the second time in a month, Thorin found himself in the unforeseen position of being grateful to Thranduil. Who inclined his head in agreement before turning away to the tent entrance, leaving Thorin to swallow the grief Thranduil made no other acknowledgment of, in speech or deed. Thorin thought he might be grateful even for that.

When Thranduil returned, he carried a long, slender shape wrapped in wine-dark velvet, laid reverently across his open palms. A sword, Thorin realized with a jolt. "To seal this rapprochement, I restore now unto you what was wrongfully taken from you." Thranduil placed the sword on the cot at Thorin's side, flicking open the velvet to uncover the smooth curve of bright Elven steel. His hand twitched, and before Thorin could consider what ulterior motives the Elvenking might have in presenting Orcrist to him like this, his fingers had already closed around the hilt, the familiar ridges and carvings of dragonbone flush against his skin.

Loath though he'd been to recognize so at first, Orcrist was beautifully made. It was as finely crafted as the best Dwarven blades but with a lighter heft, the flare of its edge lending itself to arcing strikes, graceful and sweeping as a dance, if a lethal one. For years, Deathless, of his own forging, had served him faithfully. Yet after escaping the goblin tunnels, this very hilt molded to his grip as they cleaved, spinning, through their enemies, Thorin thought that no other weapon would ever feel as right in his hands, combat transformed into an art once more.

With an effort of will, Thorin forced himself to uncurl his fingers and release the hilt, resting his hand near on the velvet. "When last I held this blade, I was accused of being a thief," he observed, voice flat. The Elvenking raised an elegant eyebrow at his suspicion, not having missed his interest in the sword.

"The sons of Elrond joined us in pursuit of the goblins a few days past," said Thranduil, unfazed. Thorin frowned at this seeming digression. He was briefly introduced to the Lord of Rivendell's sons, as alike as two peas in a pod, during his stay in their father's house, but they'd quickly departed on some mysterious errand and he did not see them again. He could not recall their names, in truth, nor guess why they would trouble themselves with the treacherous mountain passes and tangled pathways of Mirkwood. _To kill goblins?_ They were a merry pair, jostling each other good-naturedly as they walked shoulder to shoulder away down the hall, a fond smile from their grave sire trailing them, and they'd reminded Thorin strongly of... _Of Fíli and Kíli_, he thought with a dull ache. _And me. Frerin and Thráin._

His confusion must have shown on his face because the Elvenking added, "There has not been an orc hunt within a hundred leagues of Imladris that they have failed to blood their swords on in four centuries. It is from them that we heard their father gifted you this blade, he whose kin forged and wielded it in Gondolin that was." Of Gondolin, Thorin knew only what legend told—a hidden city of tiered white stone that had stood against the Enemy in an earlier age, Minas Tirith its closest likeness still in the world—and he wondered who Elrond was that he could claim descent from the High Elves of that lost stronghold, bestowing its treasures upon whomever he pleased without contest.

_How easy it can be to neglect that even the youngest of your kind have been worn by lifetimes of strife and shaped by blood debts long forgotten._ "May it serve you well, Thorin Oakenshield," Thranduil finished, bowing his head almost imperceptibly and right hand over his heart in a stately Elven salute. His hand settling on Orcrist's hilt, Thorin nodded solemnly. _Let us be allies_, he repeated in silent vow to himself, as Thranduil made to leave. The Elvenking, however, paused at the tent entrance, straight back to Thorin.

"There is among the wounded a captain of mine, Tauriel," he said, not quite hesitant but slowly, "who is known to those of your company in Esgaroth when the dragon came. She grieves deeply for your sister-sons, the one she saved and the other she could not. I ask that you treat her kindly." And then, before Thorin could muster a reply to this, he was gone in a flash of sunlight on silvered armor and pale hair. The redheaded she-Elf—it must be her, but what had passed between her and Kíli, Thranduil's son, and Fíli Thorin did not understand. He resolved to learn before he spoke to this Tauriel.

His next two visitors were not so trying.

Gandalf brought news from the south and a belated explanation for his frequent absences during the quest. The White Council—Gandalf and two others of his order, Elrond, and the Lady of the Golden Wood, an Elven sorceress reputed to be fair as foxglove—had driven the Necromancer from Dol Guldur.

It was an unlikely tale of capture, escape, and magic; Thorin half suspected the wizard had fabricated it out of whole cloth and listened, disgruntled. Until Gandalf shared in strict confidence the true identity of the Necromancer and that he'd found Thráin, dying, a prisoner in the Dark Lord's fortress. A relief it was of a sort to finally hear of his father's fate, for Thorin had long feared the worst. Thráin himself seemed to have been haunted by some ill premonition, seeking out Gandalf in the final months before Azanulbizar—a task he would not be dissuaded from by king or kin.

"And so all your plans have come to fruition," Thorin said, tone carefully neutral, when Gandalf was done. He did not know from whence Gandalf and his brother wizards came, but that they had an agenda of their own, moving those they professed to advise like pieces in an unseen game, was clear. While it had suited Thorin to allow Gandalf to convince him the time was right to reclaim Erebor, an end he, too, desired greatly and the omens favored, it was the death of the dragon, Thorin soon guessed, that most concerned Gandalf.

Now, with the Necromancer unveiled as Sauron, reborn or perhaps never truly destroyed, Gandalf's designs had also been revealed: Smaug slain and unable to ally with a darker power; Dol Guldur emptied of its armies so that its master could be challenged. _Yet in your hand are more cards you have not played_, thought Thorin, eyeing Gandalf, who looked far too unassuming to be believed.

"Oh, much has come to pass that I had no notion of," answered Gandalf, his gaze momentarily canny. "Do not think me infallible, Thorin Oakenshield." Then he sighed and was naught but an old man in gray, weary of his burdens. "I am sorry for your loss, Thorin." Strain had left new lines at the corners of his eyes.

Remembering the glow of candlelight on Gandalf's laughing face in Bag End, his affection for his charges unmistakable, Thorin nodded with a jerk of his head and accepted the wizard's sympathies in the sincerity that they'd been offered. Gandalf fell silent after that but sat with Thorin for a little longer, smoking his pipe, the smell homely and comforting, before he bid Thorin farewell.

Beorn shrugged off Thorin's gratitude with a gruff, "I have no love of orcs," though Thorin could tell it pleased him. Neither did he refuse the gold and silver Thorin insisted was his, saying that he would've had no interest in it before, but he was to be a lord of men, apparently, and certain things were expected of him.

"Some of the Lakemen seem to feel that being able to turn into a bear makes me fit for a lordship," he added at Thorin's surprise. "The fool lot of them's set on following me back to my lands come spring, now that the southern forest has been cleansed. Like ducklings after their mother." Beorn snorted, raking a hand through his wild mane of hair. "There won't be any quiet to be had, with babes squalling and children running about underfoot, their parents 'my lord'-ing me with this or that, day and night."

Thorin raised an eyebrow, simply looking at Beorn until he admitted, grudgingly, "Well, it won't _all_ be so bad." The smile tugging at Beorn's lips put the lie to his words, however. In fact, Thorin rather suspected that Beorn would enjoy the company—babes, children, and parents alike all his to care for. _Same as his bees_, thought Thorin, faintly amused, _his cattle and sheep, his dogs, his horses._ He saw again the skinchanger's paw of a hand cupped huge but gentle around a trusting mouse.

"I believe you'll make a fine lord, Master Beorn," he said. "And the Dwarves of Erebor shall ever be friends to you and yours." An easier alliance than his with Thranduil, to be sure, and one of mutual benefit. With the Lonely Mountain and Dale settled once more, traffic over the old Forest Road would increase; Beorn and his men in the vales of the Anduin could keep open the High Pass and ford south of the Carrock, for which Thorin did not doubt travelers would pay a pretty toll.

"We'll see how good a lord I am," said Beorn with a noncommittal grunt, "though your friendship I'll gladly have. Even if I'm still not overfond of Dwarves." He laughed suddenly, low and rumbling. "Of the three of us—you, me, and the man they call Dragonshooter—you are the only one who intended to be what you now are. Fate never ceases to amaze me." Beorn shook his head, then bent at the waist in a shallow, loose-limbed bow and took his leave with a dry, "My regards, King Under the Mountain."

_Fate..._ The idea prodded at his mind, a hard mass and bruising, as Thorin conferred with Glóin to ready Beorn's share of the treasure for his departure tomorrow. It was a whisper in Thorin's ear as Dwalin reported on the band of goblin stragglers killed a couple days ago by a far ranging patrol and Óin on the prognosis of the worst of the wounded—most were expected to live, thankfully.

Bard and Beorn had won their right to rule through heroism, their followers admiring their courage and strength, but Thorin... The need to reclaim Erebor had burned in his heart so long, a fire that would not be quenched by days of peace in the Blue Mountains, that he feared there were only ashes left and no contentment to be found in new crown or realm. He'd thought nothing short of exile could serve as his penance, a life spent wandering in strange lands as regret ate at his insides like a hungry rat. Yet perhaps this was a crueler sentence. To act out a poor semblance of his once dearest hopes, fully aware he was undeserving of even that much. _To never be free of my doubts..._

He must have dozed off, for it was evening again when he drifted slowly back to consciousness. _Erebor..._ He'd dreamed of walking its halls, empty and echoing. Though the images were fading fast, Thorin remembered his footprints in the dust and crossing an endless narrow bridge, the floor dropping away into a yawning abyss on either side. Steps down and down, down into the dark deep beneath the Mountain. He shivered. _I was searching. Searching for..._

There was a light at his bedside, Thorin noticed, startled, and it was not the steady flame of a candle but a glimmering halo of color, as if a piece of the moon had been caught in crystal and fractured into ten thousand rainbows. His pulse leaped, in an almost nervous anticipation; he knew of but one thing that could create such a light. Propped up against the side of his cot was Orcrist, now in its sheath, and lying benignly atop the table, not far from the edge nearest Thorin, was the Arkenstone.

For a breathless moment, he stared at this splendid jewel that had caused him and his house so much grief. He had not wanted to see the Arkenstone again, wary of falling under its spell once more, and indeed its beauty was as keen as in his memory, unsurpassed by any except, if legend was to be believed, that of the Silmarils. But, after all that had happened, Thorin thought it a cold beauty, indifferent to the suffering of those who loved it.

He turned from the Arkenstone at last and did not regret it. Instead, his eyes were drawn to the sleeping figure sitting on the stool next to him, head resting on folded arms upon his cot. Thorin reached out but wrenched his arm back before his fingers could touch a single hair to clasp his shaking hands together in his lap. He must have made some noise, however, because Bilbo jerked awake. He blinked blearily, one small fist rubbing at his eye.

"Master Baggins," Thorin said quietly. _Bilbo_ was on the tip of his tongue, but perhaps he'd lost his right to that name. "I... trust that you are well?" He studied Bilbo closely, searching head and face for signs of the injury Balin had mentioned, noting Bilbo's wan look, the gauntness of his already slight frame, and wishing he could comb his fingers through Bilbo's hair to the scalp, smooth his palms down Bilbo's arms and legs, his every side and feel the wholeness of flesh and bone under his skin, his clothes, the gift of _mithril_ mail he still wore, glinting at his neck. But Thorin kept his hands clenched in his lap. One had been enough to wrap, choking, around that throat.

"Thorin! Y-You're awake!" Bilbo cried, sounding worried but also inexplicably relieved. "I... I brought you..." His gaze darted from the Arkenstone to his fidgeting fingers, and he spoke in a rush. "I mean, Bard gave it back to me to give back to you before, before he left this morning, and I thought... I made such a great mess of things, trying to stop a battle that was fought despite or, or maybe _because_ I acted the fool, and now Fíli and Kíli—" His shoulders hunched miserably, as Thorin stiffened against the gutting stab of pain.

Bilbo's voice when he continued was tiny, thin and wavering. "I wanted to set right the wrong I'd done you, but it, it's too late, isn't it?" He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, scrubbing fiercely, to Thorin's horror, at the tears gathered there.

"_No_," said Thorin, desperate that Bilbo heed him. "Master Bag—" He couldn't call him that, distancing them like the strangers they hadn't been since that lovely dawn upon the Carrock. "_Bilbo._ Listen to me. What happened wasn't your fault." _It was mine._ "Fíli and Kíli... Their"—why was it so hard to force the truth from his tongue?—"their deaths were not of your making." Bilbo didn't seem entirely convinced, his face pale and pinched, but he sat a bit straighter, determinedly wiping his eyes dry. _He is a kindly little soul_, Thorin thought, _and braver than even he knows._

"If you acted the fool, I was many times one," he continued, after clearing his throat once, twice. "I... I would take back my words and deeds at the gates. I cannot say whether you did good or ill—there were forces greater than you, greater than I moving us all—but I am sorry I doubted you so, doubted your heart, that has ever shown me more care than I deserve."

Rarely had Thorin felt so awkward, fumbling and uncertain. The fluttering of earlier had returned, a moth caged by his ribs, and every syllable was rusted metal scraping over stone, his voice raw to his ears. "I was cruel, unforgivably cruel, and though I have lost your friendship, I... I wish for us to, to part in—" His throat closed, to Thorin's shame, and he couldn't, _couldn't_ finish, staring fixedly at the gently pointed curve of Bilbo's ear where it poked through his hair, breathing a harsh rasp.

"You were not yourself," Bilbo said, words slow and clear. His expressive features, in contrast, creased with emotion Thorin could not read before firming in resolve. "I won't pretend that you didn't scare me and, and make me scared _for_ you, but you have my friendship still, Thorin." Then Bilbo stuttered, suddenly anxious. "If, if that's what you want, that is."

That was more than Thorin had dared hope for. "Yes, yes, of course," he stammered. "I would... would very much like to be friends." Guilt pried his mouth open again, even as his mind screamed that he should keep his silence and not ruin this unlooked-for reconciliation. "But, Bilbo, I _was_ myself. You must understand that. I would not have you absolve me of responsibility for my actions, no matter how dearly I—"

At the same time, Bilbo blurted, "I'm leaving, Thorin. Tomorrow morning, with Gandalf and Beorn." He sounded as guilty as Thorin did. "That makes me a rather shabby friend, I know. Not, not staying to help you when there's so much to be done and, and waiting this long to tell you, but I—"

They both stopped, coming to a mutual realization that they were each having a different conversation. Thorin coughed, grimacing, as Bilbo flushed red to his ears. Bilbo recovered quicker than did Thorin and, wondrously, began laughing, chagrined but genuinely amused. A hint of a smile was tucked into the corners of his mouth. An answering smile curled Thorin's lips up at the ends, his muscles loosening.

"What a fine pair we are!" Bilbo shook his head wryly before sobering. "Thorin, we've all said and done things we didn't mean, would never say or do if we were thinking straight. I'm not going to hold that against you. Not when I _know_ you and that you are _good_ and, and honorable, a loyal friend and kind, too." A teasing air crept cautiously into the way Bilbo glanced at him. "Even if you _are_ prone to dramatics, too proud to be outdone by anyone in fits of temper." He arched an eyebrow at Thorin.

Face now buried in one palm, Thorin chuckled weakly and a little unwillingly. _Kind, he says._ "That's... certainly a _unique_ perspective, Master Baggins." He sighed. "I do not understand how you can forgive me so easily, Bilbo, but I won't question it any further and will simply be grateful for it." _And you_, Thorin added to himself, trying to commit this debt to some part of him deeper than memory. Bilbo nodded in approval, arms crossed over his chest.

At Thorin's tentative, "Tell me why you would leave us so soon, when the mountain passes will be closed to you until spring," however, he ran a trembling hand through his hair, slumping tiredly. The following lull stretched so long that Thorin feared he wouldn't reply.

"I could tell you that I miss the Shire," Bilbo finally said. "Its rolling green hills and lazy days in the sun. My books and my garden, my cozy armchair by the fire in Bag End, my pipe and a nice cup of tea near at hand." His tone was wistful, and Thorin had to bite the inside of his cheek to not interrupt. _We can make you a home here_, he thought. _Or in Dale. Whatever you want. Just..._ "And, and that would be true..." Bilbo worried at his lower lip, hesitating, then took a deep breath. "But it would be a lie, too. The truth is..."

With a visible effort, he met and held Thorin's concerned gaze. "The real truth is, Thorin, I can't enter the Mountain without remembering that dreadful dragon, his, his _voice_"—Bilbo shuddered, shrinking in on himself—"wicked words and fire in the night, all those people who _burned_ b-because... A-And Dale's not much better, the ground red and black, bodies stacked high like, like cordwood, Fíli and Kíli—" He turned his head away, breath hitching, and whispered, "You... How can you _stand_ it?"

_Because I must._ That would not help Bilbo, though, altogether too grim for his ears. "Erebor is my home," Thorin said instead, "as the Shire is yours." Even as Thorin made the comparison, he wanted to deny it. For it meant he could never keep Bilbo from the warren of a house under the hill and its round green door, grass growing lush on the verge, every nook and cranny within filled with mementos. Treasures more precious than gold. "No matter how much... darkness"—_war, death, sickness_—"it has known, if I... can be of use, I would not abandon it." To Thorin's dismay, Bilbo looked not the least bit comforted by this, his face a wretched picture of shame.

Silently cursing his inability to find the right words, Thorin exhaled sharply and tried again. "But... I have an obligation to my people, who have not seen fit to release me from it. You, Bilbo, _you_ have more than fulfilled your obligations to the Company, and now it is past time for you to put yourself first." _I'm not getting through to him_, Thorin thought at the soft, wounded noise that escaped Bilbo. His nails dug into his palms as he resisted the panicky urge to pull Bilbo into an embrace until all his ills had been drawn from him, before they could poison that gentle spirit, as Thorin had turned sour and brittle.

"Master Baggins," said Thorin, purposely stern, "as your _friend_, I want you to seek your peace, wherever you think it lies." He swallowed, head bowing, and compelled his heart to let go. The lesson of possession's perils was not one he would ever allow himself to forget. "While I can't claim that I won't miss you, sorely, I'd rather you be content half a world away than, than shackled to your pain at my side."

And because he was weak still, Thorin added, voice muted, "If... If one day you wish to... I hope you'll feel things have changed for the better." In his mind's eye, he saw himself standing proud next to Bilbo on the ramparts where he'd come so close to destroying whatever ties of affection bound them, a hand sure on Bilbo's shoulder and the valley spread like a jeweled mosaic at their feet, rich once more with birds, blossoms and fruit, white sails catching the sun all along the blue ribbon of the River Running. _Years. It'll be years._ Defeated, Thorin could only promise, "You shall always be welcome here."

"Oh, Thorin," Bilbo said, sniffling, "you, you great fool of a—" Later, he'd blame his inattentiveness on the puzzling note of exasperation in Bilbo's voice. Though, he admitted, he was not usually so slow to react to sudden motion, too busy berating himself for upsetting Bilbo further. Either way, he was taken completely by surprise when Bilbo all but leaped the short distance between them, body landing half on his, half on the cot and arms wrapping tight around him. His breath blew out of him like he'd been punched hard in the stomach; he tensed, hands twitching, aching to the tips of his fingers to return Bilbo's touch. But Bilbo was too near, curls of hair tickling Thorin's cheek and little puffs of air the shell of his ear. Thorin didn't trust himself not to clutch, to bruise.

"Thank you. For understanding," Bilbo said into Thorin's hair, sounding as if he were weeping and laughing at once. "But this is not goodbye—not, not forever, at least. That I need a, a bit of time away doesn't mean I don't need my friends." When Bilbo released him, standing and straightening his clothes with an embarrassed cough, one hand brushing quickly at his eyes, Thorin mourned the loss of that warm weight against him. "Balin tells me there's likely to be messengers or what have you traveling between Erebor and the Blue Mountains every couple months." Thorin nodded, thinking of trade and gold and his people coming home, families reunited, Dís, _Dís_.

"Well, I intend to take full advantage of it, and I expect you to do so, too." Bilbo's tone was imperious, the ring of steel underneath, and his stance challenging, a far cry from the sheltered Halfling Thorin had mocked as a grocer. He was no warrior, more apt yet to flail with his sword than cut, but he had treated with kings and defied them. "Have your messengers stop by the Shire. Tea is at four, but they can visit at any time, so long as they don't look to empty my larder." His brows drew down into a thunderous scowl at Thorin. Who huffed to learn that Bilbo _still_ had not forgiven the Company for doing him the _favor_ of eating his food before it went to waste, gone rotten and stale during what was expected to be a months-long absence.

"I shall command them to exercise restraint," Thorin intoned, smiling helplessly at Bilbo's outrage. _I had nothing to do with his empty larder._ Bilbo, however, seemed to have forgotten this fact, inordinately pleased with receiving Thorin's royal protection. He smiled back at Thorin, eyes curiously soft.

"You must write to me, Thorin," he said, just as Thorin was beginning to feel odd under that tender focus. "I want to hear of all that you're up to." Frowning contemplatively, Bilbo added, "Unless it's a state secret, of course. Or too, too _Dwarvish_ for a Hobbit to follow, as I'll ask that you mind my ignorance about who's who among the lords of the Iron Hills, the customary arrangement of mining rotas, and such."

"Balin?" asked Thorin, amused. He chuckled at Bilbo's heated, frustrated _yes!_ Then stopped, abruptly, to marvel at his own good humor, hearing a lightness to that one brief exchange that he had not noticed was missing from his others until now. Dread again rose in him at this inexorable separation.

"And one day," Bilbo said, catching Thorin's eye, "I'll return. I promise, Thorin." His gaze was steady and very determined, clear as the air at the Mountain's peak in fine weather, and Thorin let himself believe, for Bilbo's courage had never failed them.

That night was one of the few in the ensuing month that Thorin spent well. He'd spooned mouthfuls of the hearty stew Bombur had left warming on a hearth for him, for once not bothered that it tasted of dust and ashes, as Bilbo talked animatedly of his plans upon reaching the Shire. At Thorin's insistence, Bilbo accepted a small box of jewelry, to be chosen on the morrow before his departure, in addition to the two chests, one filled with gold and the other with silver, that Thorin was glad to find Bard had already pressed on him. Bilbo's sputtering protests that he'd never be able to get all this treasure home without war and murder along the way died at Thorin's wry observation that Beorn had enough gold of his own to tempt robbers. Who were to be pitied, not feared, if they thought to attack a skinchanger and a wizard. Thorin was much gratified by the rueful shake of Bilbo's head at that, a grin spreading slowly across his face as he conceded Thorin's logic; Gandalf and Beorn would be _quite_ peeved at having to do more fighting.

And, as the hour grew late, Bilbo climbed onto the cot beside Thorin with no qualms, no hesitation—a fist had squeezed Thorin's heart in his chest at this easy show of trust—sharp tongue giving some unpleasant relations of his a thorough lashing until he fell asleep mid-sentence, sprawled on his front, one small hand curled loosely on the pillows between them. Thorin tucked the blankets around Bilbo, daring, finally, to smooth down a couple stray hairs as Bilbo snuffled at his feather-light touch. He hoped Bilbo's dreams were sweet, of the rolling hills of the Shire, green in the sunshine, and the snug rooms and passages of his home. Thorin did not know when he, too, fell asleep, watching Bilbo in mingled care and regret. No dreams greeted him after he closed his eyes.

**· · ·**

_TBC_

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><p>I've taken some liberties with the ages of the Dwarves in the Company. According to <em>The Lord of the Rings<em>, Appendix A, "Durin's Folk," Thorin is actually the eldest member, born in III 2746 and a sprightly 195(!) years old at the time of the Quest of Erebor. Kíli is the youngest, aged 77 (b. III 2864), with Fíli only five years older than him. Thorin's cousins are, in order from oldest to youngest, Balin (178), Dwalin (169), Óin (167), and Glóin (158). No birth dates are given for Dori, Nori, and Ori, distant kinsmen of Thorin, or Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur, descended from the Dwarves of Khazad-dûm. However, from comments in _The Hobbit_ about the relative ages of the Dwarves, they all must be at least fifty years older than Fíli.

Now, these ages don't seem to jive well, IMO, on certain points—notably, Thorin and Balin's relationship—with Peter Jackson's portrayal of the Dwarves, upon which my characterization is largely based. Though, granted, the timeline of the film adaptation is... _hinky_. Long story short, I felt a little reshuffling of the Company ages would better suit the narrative and my convenience, of course. So, as far as this AU is concerned, the Dwarves, from oldest to youngest: Balin and Óin, who are more or less contemporaries; Dwalin, Thorin, and Glóin, close enough in age (and rank) to be peers; Dori and Nori, Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur, in whatever order the reader prefers, provided the relative ages within each family group are kept straight; Fíli, Kíli, and Ori, the babes of the bunch. Dori, I suppose, is just naturally a silver fox. Either that or Nori's criminal proclivities have worried his hair prematurely white.

On a more somber note, after waffling a bit about whether to kill Fíli and Kíli, as in canon, I finally decided to do so because politics! With Thorin alive as king and Dáin dead in his place, there was a lot of friction between the Dwarves originally of Erebor and the Dwarves from the Iron Hills new come to the Mountain that I just didn't think I could handle well on top of developing a credible Thorin/Bard romance, with Bard a recovering victim of rape per the prompt. Luckily for me, Thorin Stonehelm was born in III 2866 (_The Lord of the Rings_, Appendix A, "Durin's Folk"), making him a mere two years younger than Kíli at the time of the Quest. Thorin could then name his namesake heir, appeasing Dáin's followers while also observing the laws of inheritance, assuming primogeniture, but only if his sister-sons did not survive the Battle of Five Armies. Hey, I at least spared Thorin the guilt of knowing Fíli and Kíli fell "defending him with shield and body" (_The Hobbit_, Chapter XVIII, "The Return Journey"). Thanks for that depressing image, Tolkien!


	2. Chapter 1, Part 2

Just a friendly reminder that, besides obvious story divergences such as Thorin failing to die, this fanfic is not canon compliant past _The Desolation of Smaug_ theatrical release. Elements from the third film and extended editions will appear, however, when and where I can finagle them in, same as references to the book(s).

As for the next update, realistically, I wouldn't expect anything for six months upwards to a year or even more. I'd hoped to push through all the spring departures and arrivals, but I kind of need a break from this fic, much as I love it to bits. So, I'll probably write a couple cracky one-shots to cleanse the palate, then return to my other multichaptered story, whose readers are no doubt sharpening the pitchforks at my complete lack of progress since last September. These months-long waits between updates can be rough, I know, and I am terribly sorry for it, as well as eternally grateful for everybody's patience with my shortcomings as an author.

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><p><strong>· · ·<strong>

**Thine Hatred To Crown**

_Thorin_

**· · ·**

Thorin opened his eyes to darkness and silence. He sighed and pushed himself wearily from bed, dressing with practiced movements in the mid-December chill under the Mountain. It would be hours yet before dawn, but he would find no more sleep tonight. Lighting a single candle in a simple brass holder, he left his quarters and started walking, nodding cursorily to the guards in the hallway. He did not need the candle to see, of course, Dwarven eyes well adapted to the subterranean gloom of their realms and every path, every step in Erebor familiar to his feet. No, he needed the light to keep his ghosts at bay.

Out of the guest wing he went, serving as temporary living space for Erebor's scant five hundred or so current residents. Though there were inconveniences in Dwarves using furnishings meant for Men and Elves, the dozens of connected rooms set aside originally for visiting dignitaries, their families and entourages, had the benefits of being self-contained, with kitchens, a large dining hall, storage, public and private baths all within easy walking distance, and of including guard barracks that could house many. Structural damage to the guest wing was minimal, Smaug quickly bypassing it in favor of the grand staircase to the treasure chambers below, and the wing opened directly out into the main entrance hall, the thoroughfare that bisected the Mountain, not far from the front gates, where sentries were posted on the ramparts.

Better, too, that Erebor's once thriving residential areas be left to the cleaning and burial crews, followed by the surveyors and stonemasons until he and Balin had sorted through the rolls of the dead and missing for extant family claims among those who'd fled to the Blue Mountains and Iron Hills. In this, they were aided by the birth and dwelling registries found for them by Ori, who was cataloging the moldering library, disarrayed by its former caretakers in the rush to save what legal and historical documents they could from dragonfire. Between Balin's prodigious memory and the information sent by Dáin's wife, Lady Eir, in her twice weekly raven communications, they were restoring to their people their homes, one name at a time.

Proud as Thorin was of their work as the list of unaccounted for grew shorter, there were days when he could not see beyond the empty rooms, their occupants lost to the dragon and war, to the years of wandering, hardship upon misfortune. And those gaping spaces would haunt him at night, driving him from his bed. He arrived in the main entrance hall and turned to head deeper into the Mountain's depths.

The high ceiling was hidden in shadow, impenetrable even to Dwarven eyes with the upper levels uninhabited. His candle cast a wavering golden circle on the floor about him. Elsewhere, the hall's columned expanse, its many arched doorways and climbing staircases, was lit in green by foxfire pots. Scaffolding lined the walls where repairs were ongoing; the hall rang with the sounds of hammer and chisel from morning till dusk. Most of their efforts went towards replacing stone here marred by Smaug, the total erasure of his presence from this shared space, traversed daily by everyone in the Mountain, given precedence over bringing craft forges, mining shafts, coin presses—not needed with Erebor's vaults already filled to excess with gold—up to operational capacity. _In the spring_, he assured himself, as he'd done before.

All of which made their winter quarters in the guest wing eminently suitable, even if Thorin sometimes felt an intruder in his own kingdom. Sleeping in a too large, too soft bed, the stone enclosing him of a subtly different hue and texture than that in the royal apartments several levels above. He woke more often than not, whatever he dreamed of—and he could not always remember, unsettled as the images slipped away—because he'd heard or thought he did the echo of voices lapping against strange walls, around corners he did not know the shape of.

Yet there was only ever an oppressive silence when he listened. Erebor's folk not long gone to rest, exhausted by after supper duties, and the midnight watch well into their shift but hours from the predawn change in guard. It was impossible to fall back asleep once roused. Worse, impossible to remain in his rooms, though Thorin had tried to busy himself with letters and reports. A twitching, restless strain would have him pacing like a caged beast, then finally walking the halls—wandering, searching. Weeks passed before he realized what he searched for, whose voices came to him in the quiet dark.

He took a set of side stairs, the grand staircase still under repair from Smaug worming his way down them, scoring and cracking rock as he squeezed his scaly bulk through. Thorin's destination was not the treasury, however, nor the Great Hall of Thráin, first of his name and founder of the Kingdom Under the Mountain, where once the Arkenstone had shone so bright.

Bitterness twisted his lips, the ugly expression sliding smoothly onto his face after the countless times he'd been struck by the irony. He'd believed he was at last rid of the Arkenstone with honor. The ill-fated jewel would be held forevermore in a pillar at the heart of the catacombs, he decreed, spilling its white light, as if a captured moon, upon the hallowed dead.

And, indeed, the patterned bands of gold and truesilver inlaid across the walls, floor, and even ceiling of the chambers where the lords of Erebor slept in tombs of stone shimmered with an unearthly beauty bathed in the Arkenstone's radiance. An awed gasp had swept through the gathered crowd as Thorin lifted the Arkenstone into place, his hands burning against its cool sides. The relief panels graven by the finest stonemasons among Dwarves sprang into flickering life with scenes of the world and their storied history; tens of thousands of tiny gems, flecked over every surface, flashed with mirrored rainbows, the stars in this created sky.

Thorin had withdrawn unnoticed as soon as the ceremony ended. It'd been his intention then to never again gaze upon the sight whilst he lived, unless duty demanded it of him. How quickly his resolve had broken! For reasons he could not, _would_ not understand, his mind sought refuge in the company of the dead when tallying losses put a tired ache in his bones and he doubted, to his shame, whether Erebor could be restored to prosperity. Prudent as it was to question his own competence in view of recent events, that he should fault, even in the privacy of his thoughts, the dedication and skill of his people was unacceptable.

Making his way past the treasure chambers to the catacomb stairs, Thorin wondered who awaited him there tonight, standing vigil next to their tombs or, in the case of his sister-sons, perched rather irreverently atop them. Fíli and Kíli were always brimming with youthful energy, as happy as he'd ever seen them in life and eager for news. They pestered him to tell them of how went the reconstruction.

_Why not keep the gold spatters in the Gallery of Kings, Uncle? They're too many to scrape off, and they'd be a great conversation starter!_ Perhaps, Kíli, except I have no wish to speak of our failed attempt to kill Smaug. _Uncle, are the foundries to be overhauled? We left it a mess, and with Great-Grandfather's statue gone, there's no crafting that calls for so much gold._ That will be decided in the spring when work begins on those areas, Fíli, though I feel at least one of the furnaces can still be of use, as I've been considering that bars would be easier than coins to store and transport...

All that he'd never have a chance to hear Fíli and Kíli talk of, as the home they'd never know slowly but surely regained its former glory. Many had not lived to see it. And when those names seemed too many, it was his sister-sons who greeted him with twin grins of delight, their interest in Erebor's affairs keen for those who'd left the circles of the world.

Other times, Thráin greeted him with a solemn nod from beside a tomb that was empty. _Only for now_, Thorin reminded himself. Only until Dís could bring what personal effects they had of their father: a magnificent war hammer, the last of his own forging, and a full set of armor commissioned for him on the occasion of his birthing day by Thrór not a decade before the coming of the dragon that he couldn't bear to don after Erebor's fall, both enameled in the deep red he favored; a wide and ornate belt wrought of gold and rubies by his future wife as a courting gift in assent to his suit that he'd worn on every anniversary of the day they wed to please her, even long after her death.

He'd wanted to recover his father's body from Dol Guldur, but Gandalf counseled against it, the shadow in his eyes giving Thorin pause. "The master of Dol Guldur was well versed in dark spells," Gandalf said reluctantly, suddenly unwilling to name Sauron, "and it took magic of equal strength to defeat him. Such power cannot be used, for good or ill, without consequence and leaves a... scar upon the land, a dissonance, that is a trap as fatal to trespassers as any the Dark Lord could devise."

Thorin's mind had gone then to Mirkwood, its twisted paths and poisoned streams, the trees, the very air pressing close. Gandalf watched him cannily from beneath the brim of his hat. "Yes, I see you understand me. I've asked the Elves to patrol the surrounding forest but to keep their distance. I ask that you also bar your people from venturing into the ruins." And Thorin had agreed.

"Had my father any words for me?" he asked after a moment. The taste of futility was sour in his mouth and all too familiar from his desperate search for Thráin among the slain of Azanulbizar.

"Only his love," was Gandalf's gentle answer. Thorin had rubbed at his prickling eyes with tightly balled fists at this, swallowing the cry that clawed up his throat.

Now, whenever Thráin took his leave of Thorin on his nightly visitations, he said, voice fading, _Remember that I love you, my son._ Thorin would promise to and thank his father for the advice—small yet helpful insights about managing resources, labor, which Thráin had cause to learn sooner and in greater detail than usual as Thrór turned away from the daily workings of his kingdom. The room was invariably empty of anyone but Thorin when he looked.

Was this the first sign of some creeping madness? It was not the gold sickness, consuming him from the inside like fire did tinder as he remained unaware. There was a... steadying feeling in speaking to his ghosts—impossible, Thorin knew, a figment of his unrest—and they did not intrude into his life beyond whispers at the edge of sleep, provided he lit a candle in dark halls and kept himself wholly occupied with his duties during the day.

In the latter, he had the aid of the Company, who had yet to give him any indication that his behavior was cause for alarm. Worry, yes, he saw sometimes on their faces. But this was the concern of friends, Thorin judged, not the fearful wariness of subjects dealing with a king lost to reason. For it was his poor appetite, his infrequent bouts of lethargy, and his disinclination to mingle at the weekly gatherings, which always ended in drinking and song until the wee hours of the morning, that warranted such expressions.

Thorin did what he could to reassure them. He feigned ignorance when Óin or Dori or Bifur ladled a little extra soup into his bowl, sliced him a slightly larger piece of bread, and he made sure to eat all of those meals, at least. He let Nori and Ori drag him from bed with pleas that he _must_ help them sort through this pile of fancy silverware etched with the royal seal or that stack of diplomatic correspondence written in his grandfather's hand while he let Balin call for tea breaks and snack breaks, afternoon naps and early stops to their after supper councils so he could deftly suggest that Thorin retire for the evening as they shared a bottle of wine.

He'd once or twice played the harp—a beautiful instrument of gold strung with silver, sound still sweet, that Nori had found hanging on a wall in the treasury, undisturbed by Smaug—at Bofur's tireless urging when the Company took it upon themselves to entertain at a gathering. Thorin could admit he enjoyed himself, might have smiled, even, at the rollicking tunes Bofur led them on, his clarinet swinging from high note to low as their audience clapped and stomped in time to the music, tankards of mead sloshing. But he would spend the next few nights listening to Fíli and Kíli complain that such-and-such piece needed a strong fiddle line, that Balin's viol needed tuning or maybe new strings entirely, they could not agree, that Ori needed to breathe deeper to hold long notes on his flute...

_When more of our people have come home, will there be concerts and plays in the grand amphitheater again?_ Kíli. _You and Mother should attend, Uncle—_ Fíli. Then their words ran together, as tended to happen when they were excited. _Get your minds off work, work, and more work! Show royal patronage of the arts!_ "Yes," he would say, "yes," voice echoing hollowly in the perpetual hush of the crypts, and he would miss his sister-sons so acutely he did not think he'd feel a difference if Azog appeared to flay his skin to the bone.

It would be Fíli and Kíli tonight, Thorin finally decided, before amending, _Perhaps Grandfather._ He'd become practiced at guessing when he would wake in the dark to silence, unable to sleep for the whispering voices that led him down and down, down into the deep beneath the Mountain, where the dead awaited him. Thrór visited him less often than did his sister-sons or his father and had less to say, as well. Rather, the two of them would stand together in wordless penance as Thorin's candle burned to a stub, their guilt and shame binding them as tightly as the tainted blood in their veins. Those feelings were close to the surface now, Thorin knew, the suffering his actions had caused, however unintentionally, having come to his gates.

Thorin had been holding unofficial court, sitting alone at a table in the dining hall after the dishes were cleared with some old mining records to read so any who wished to could bespeak him, when one of the sentries posted on the ramparts reported that a column of about fifty approached on foot from the direction of Dale. He'd sent for Balin and mustered the guard—a precaution that, as the men neared, proved unnecessary.

For this was no enemy raid. The group's progress was slowed by carts laden with meager possessions and supplies, livestock, bedraggled women and children, the elderly, the infirm. Once Thorin determined that the Lakemen, Bard's tall figure in the lead, were not being pursued, he went forth from the Mountain to meet them, Balin and a score of guards trailing. He would not greet Bard as he'd done in their earlier parley, from atop a barricade. Not when he suspected, rightly, that Bard sought refuge for his people.

"Hail, Thorin son of Thráin, King Under the Mountain," said Bard, voice hoarse. "We beg shelter of you till spring." And Thorin had looked upon Bard with rising alarm. The man was almost swaying on his feet in exhaustion, his left arm bound to his side under his battered coat. The same dun-colored hide he'd worn when he first found the Company on the banks of the Forest River, though Thorin remembered him in warmer, finer blue. His face was pale, drawn with pain and, Thorin was startled to see, bruised along his jaw and across one cheek, as if he'd been struck.

Bard had swallowed hard at Thorin's questioning appraisal, body tense as a taut string. He was thrumming with a nervousness Thorin did not expect of a man who'd slain a dragon. "We would be glad to welcome you and yours, Lord Bard," Thorin answered, startled again by the disquiet in Bard's eyes at hearing himself titled as his deeds and wealth deserved. "But I was made to understand you would be wintering in Esgaroth, to remain there until the Men of the Lake had rebuilt their town"—Thorin suppressed a wince of his own—"and all was in readiness for you to reclaim Dale."

"Things have changed." The words were flat and told Thorin little while implying much, none of it good. "I cannot stay in Laketown," Bard finished heavily, and his expression was grim. Those of his son, at his side, and of his followers behind him could only be called mutinous, however. Thorin caught the angry mutter of the Master's name before Bard flinched, turning to quell the resentment with a glare like molten steel. When he moved, the collar of coat and shirt pulling open, another set of bruises, unmistakably fingermarks, stood stark against his throat in the fading light.

_Greed can make beasts of men_, thought Thorin, an ember of wrath glowing beneath his ribs. He and Balin exchanged a glance, Balin's lips thinned into a white line. The Dwarves of Erebor had made their position clear: To Bard, heir of Girion, who had done their kingdom a great service by killing Smaug, would go a fourteenth of the dragon's hoard, to be spent as he willed in aid of the people of Esgaroth and the refounding of Dale. Not a single coin of gold or silver would be paid to any other, for in truth Thorin mistrusted the Master of Laketown. Who would have taken his sister-sons, Óin, and Bofur hostage after rousing a mob against them had not Bard forewarned them to leave for Erebor, then swayed the survivors of Smaug's attack otherwise.

Seeing the evidence of violence on Bard's person affirmed his judgment of the Master's character, though this brought Thorin no satisfaction, for it left him with a petty despot not a day's trip downriver from Erebor. _And an honorless coward_, he added with a grimace, _all the more dangerous for his serpent's tongue._ Despite rumors that the Master fled before the dragon with no consideration for his town's defense or evacuation, he'd apparently managed to talk himself back into favor with his subjects.

Not for the first time, he wondered why Bard didn't oust the Master from power in the weeks after Smaug's demise at his hands. Surely, Bard had the prestige and the ability, too; he'd had no trouble rallying his scared men, many of whom were more accustomed to wielding hoe than sword, during the battle and was bold enough in arranging matters as he deemed fit when it came to the care of the needy, according to Balin. Yet he submitted to the Master's authority, over and over. Even when the man set a pack of thugs on him, Thorin could only assume, to drive him from Esgaroth and eliminate a rival, secure in the fact that Bard's integrity and compassion would never allow him to stop the shipments of gold that will keep the townsfolk fed through the winter. _I know Bard is no fool nor blind. Why does he not act to foil the Master's schemes?_

"Da," said the girl, Bard's younger daughter, tucked into his side opposite his son, "are the Dwarves not going to let us stay?" Her question was soft and plaintive, muffled by the large woolen scarf wrapped snugly about her head and neck, blue as a robin's egg. Her brother, meanwhile, had edged protectively in front of their father and was glowering at Thorin. Who suddenly realized he'd been staring at Bard, teeth grinding in frustration. At least Bard also seemed a trifle surprised at the interruption. He peered down at his daughter with a slow sigh, his hand rubbing soothing circles on her shoulder.

When Bard met Thorin's eyes again, he tilted his chin up, gaze challenging. There was... something in Bard's posture that continued to vex Thorin. A bracing against a blow that could not be evaded, as if he knew exactly what Thorin had been thinking, expected it and _accepted_ it, meek in a way Thorin struggled to reconcile with the commanding nobility that was stamped so clearly on the man now.

Shaking his head sharply, Thorin said to the girl, "Fear not, my lady. The hospitality of the Dwarves is not so quickly retracted once granted." He smiled to watch her blush prettily at the courteous address, saddened that her eyes were raw from crying. "Come!" he said to the group at large, belatedly contrite that he'd kept his guests standing in the growing chill. "There are fires in our halls to warm you, soup, mead and ale to fill your stomachs, blankets, beds." And a ragged cheer had sounded down the column, men, women, and children animated with renewed energy at the prospect of an end to their long winter march. Only Bard was quiet, eyes shut as he nodded absently at the chatter around him, men clapping him on the back and women leaning in close to kiss him on the cheek in their exuberance, his daughter tugging excitedly on his sleeve. Thorin thought, a bit amused, that the man looked miserable under all the attention, stiff as a pillar of stone. His shoulders hunched at every touch.

The rest of the evening passed in a flurry of activity, Thorin ordering the entire able-bodied population of Erebor save the healers and sentries, some three hundred Dwarves, to prepare quarters for the Lakemen in the guest wing, find room for their stores and livestock—glad as Thorin would be to have fresh eggs and milk, beef, pork, they'd have to purchase feed from Rhûn or, unhappily, the Elves—and generally see to their comfort. Snow was falling thicker and thicker from the lowering skies by the time he followed the last of the refugees inside. They'd been fortunate in beating the storm to the Mountain and, as Thorin walked amongst them in the crowded dining hall, these tired and hungry people in their threadbare clothing, the flame of his anger had been fanned. Just what game was the Master playing at with Bard?

Determined to hear answers, Thorin had sought out Bard. To his annoyance, the man was not in the dining hall with his children—and where was his elder daughter?—nor with his men sorting their supplies, the women spreading sheets and blankets on the cots in the barracks where most of them would sleep. Finally, Nori, carrying an armful of bedding heaped half as tall as he, directed Thorin towards a small private suite that Balin as well as the Lakemen had insisted that Bard and his family take.

He'd received no reply to his knock or request for admittance and, impatient, let himself in, thinking Bard to be in the connected bath, which was divided from the bedchamber by another door, or not present at all. Instead, Bard was sitting on the bare stone floor, back pressed to the footboard of the bed and arms around his drawn up knees. At his side was a knife, lying close at hand atop his folded coat and sling, a candle, a roll of bandages and a shallow basin with a washcloth hung over its rim, the water within a light pink. Thorin had stopped short, blinking at the sight. Bard's gaze was distant when he entered, but it sharpened abruptly at the near noiseless scuff of his boots, focusing on Thorin with the unerring, piercing accuracy of one of the man's arrows, for all that Bard had been deaf to the world not a minute before.

"What do you want?" Bard said, tone clipped, and Thorin had to bite down on an equally rude retort. The sleeves of Bard's tunic hitched up momentarily as one hand, Bard moving the still healing left arm gingerly, dropped to the knife handle, the other to the floor, palm flat to push off it if needed. Thorin scowled at the implicit insult—as though he or any other Dwarf would seek to do harm to a guest and ally invited under his roof!—then breathed deep, forcing himself to calm.

More bruises marred Bard's wrists, discolored rings that spoke of ill treatment worse than Thorin had guessed. He could not blame Bard for his caution. From what he'd been told by the Men, those marks were the result of Bard's second arrest in as many months on spurious charges and in a place, by people, he knew far better than he did Erebor or Thorin.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, jaw tight. He'd also seen enough. Form demanded that he message the Master of Bard's safe arrival with his followers, but Thorin thought the Master could use a reminder that, without Bard's generosity, he and Laketown had no claim on Erebor's treasure that the Dwarves would recognize except pity. Which wore thin with every indication, mapped across the Dragonshooter's skin, that the gratitude of Esgaroth was a fleeting, fickle thing. "Do you need—"

"No," was the curt response and a baldfaced lie on Bard's part with his blood staining water and cloth. Thorin felt a sudden urge to grab Bard by the arm and drag that stubborn, prideful attitude of his unwilling to the healers. Did the man understand nothing of his position? Hailed as a hero by the Men, unusually friendly with the Elvenking, and bound to the Dwarves by the debt they owed him, Bard was in uniquely good standing with all three races. As King of Dale, he would be a political hinge upon which diplomatic and trade relations throughout the region would turn. If, that is, he didn't tax himself to sickness or death first. Thorin stoutly ignored Óin's voice in his head, chiding him that he was no model patient either.

Fuming, he made to step closer and argue his case. But Bard had blanched, his grip on the knife spasming, and said, simply, "..._don't_," in a low rasp that was half threat, half plea. Thorin frowned. What was there to hide? The Lakemen all knew of Bard running afoul of the Master's thugs and were not shy about airing his grievances in his stead; no shame attached to Bard for this incident. Nor was his reluctance to waste his people's energies on civil strife accounted as cowardice with winter upon them.

Bard finally seemed to sense Thorin's disbelief, for he continued, "Truly, I don't need— I'm un—" He swallowed, raking a hand through his hair, and visibly changed his mind on what he planned to say, his next words coming slower and more difficult. "My hurts are not serious. Just a few... scratches that I've already seen to and bruises that will be gone in a week or two." _Then why have you yet to let go of that knife?_ wondered Thorin. Bard's knuckles were white around the handle, faint tremors crawling up his arm. His voice, however, was smooth as chipped flint and as hard. "I thank you for your concern, Oakenshield, but it is not needed." _Nor wanted_, Bard's expression said, his mouth firming in dismissal.

Thorin had bristled at being so brusquely refused. "As you wish," he gritted out. Then, in a last attempt at courtesy, he offered, "There are other chambers that you and your family may stay in, if your daughters would like a bed of their own." He vaguely recalled glimpsing several sleeping alcoves in Bard's former home, and Balin was arranging for the larger families—there was one extended clan with a dozen members, young and old—to occupy some of the more extensive suites. When Bard's face shuttered, gaze going cold, Thorin knew he'd made a grave mistake.

"I have only one daughter," Bard said, and Thorin almost would've preferred that the man stab him with the knife, rather than with this polite statement of fact, wrung dry of all emotion. "I bid you a good night, King Under the Mountain." Thorin had no memory of leaving. One moment, he was staring at Bard, stricken, then in a blink of an eye, he was outside in the hall, door shut behind him, trying to put a name to the face of Bard's eldest child and failing, _failing_. He'd braced his hands against the wall, fingers digging into the stone, as he fought not to scream. How could he have been so callous? So _stupid?_

_"...fire in the night, all those people who _burned_..."_ He'd known that a full quarter of the town perished in the inferno of its destruction, but somehow he never made the connection between those grim numbers, still better than they could've been by Bard's bravery, and mothers who'd lost their sons, fathers who'd lost their daughters, brothers and sisters torn apart, families and friends—the incalculable sum of human suffering.

He had blinded himself. He who'd watched as Dwarves that stood proud at his side for their initiation as warriors were crushed beneath Smaug's taloned feet and roasted alive in their armor, wailing high and thin as metal melted like acrid wax. Who'd heard the grind of crumbling stone, burying the fleeing, and smelt the gagging stench of charred meat, soot greasy on his lips. Men, women, and children—all were as sheep before a wolf, _vermin_ in truth, to the dragon, whose cruel malice was boundless. Thorin _knew_ this. As surely as he'd cleansed and prepared for burial with his own hands the desiccated bodies of the last of his people in the western guardroom, left by Smaug to a slow, wasting death in the suffocating dark, fearful and trapped.

And ramshackle Esgaroth, fishing its trade, unlike Erebor held no attraction for Smaug except what terror he could instill in its inhabitants before slaughtering them in revenge for the injury Thorin had done him. It was a bitter satisfaction that Smaug's arrogance proved his downfall; he'd been too intent on toying with his prey, lazily setting the town ablaze and flying low over the escaping boats, to take notice of a lone bowman.

Bard's stoic composure during their parley suddenly seemed remarkable, angry though his words had sounded to Thorin then. Thorin could not say that he would've treated at all in Bard's position, confronted with willful denial and a mighty army at his back. His kin newly laid to rest in the smoldering wreck of his home. Bard's daughter had been tall and lovely, lithe but strong as a young tree in fresh bloom. She'd struck Thorin in their brief, now only, acquaintance as practical and capable and much loved by her father.

Why did Bard not spit her name in his face? Of how Laketown had welcomed the Company and aided them on their way to the Mountain, of Thorin's promise that all would share in the wealth of Erebor, Bard spoke at length, no matter that he'd opposed the former because he valued the latter less than the safety of his family. But not once did he touch on the loss that family had suffered, his personal grief pushed so deep within Thorin was fooled. He'd spent long minutes in the hall outside Bard's door finding a reason: If Thorin could not be moved by the plight of hundreds, what was the death of one girl to him?

"—ire? Sire, are you well?" Thorin blinked owlishly at the concerned face of the guard before him. At some point, his feet had stopped. How long he'd been standing there, lost in thought as the guard tried to get his attention, Thorin could only imagine, flushing.

_Just as well Dwalin is gone._ With Dwalin not due to return from the Blue Mountains till spring, the Dwarves on watch and patrol reported directly to Thorin. Otherwise, he had no illusions that his nocturnal wanderings would remain a secret from the Company. Who would descend on him with questions he wasn't sure he could answer. Not if he wanted to keep his nights unattended.

"Yes. I was—" Was what? Realizing again what a hash he'd made of things after the hidden door was opened? Heavy on his shoulders as the awareness was that Bard had judged him to be so consumed by greed and ambition that the lives of innocents meant nothing to him—and he could not even say that Bard was wrong about who he'd been then—Thorin had eventually forced himself back to the dining hall. Resolve filled him with each dragging step, to care for Bard's people as he should've done from the moment Smaug left the Mountain for Esgaroth.

The good cheer of the Men at having a warm meal to eat, their _gratitude_ at having a warm place to sleep, their children tucked close—it shamed Thorin. His cheeks still hurt from the false smile he'd worn for hours as he played the gracious host, assuring the Lakemen that, no, their presence was no trouble, that Erebor had resources aplenty, of course, especially with the additional supplies they'd brought, to support all through the winter. Until at last they were bedded down for the night, tired but hopeful. It was somewhat of a relief that Bard's son, at least, had not forgotten Thorin's responsibility in his family's sorrows, stance wary and an accusing glint in his eye as he inquired after his father, his sister's hand clasped firmly in his. Thorin had called Ori over to guide them to their quarters, the girl's sleepy parting wave at him a blow that stove his chest in.

"I was thinking," he finished weakly. Seeing the guard's hesitance, Thorin cleared his throat and said in his most authoritative voice, "As you were." Yet the guard lingered, neither saluting nor returning to his post. _If I don't want Balin to hear of this tomorrow..._ Thorin bared his teeth in what he hoped was a winning grin and lied, "I, too, am about to head back to where I should be: my bed. This walk has settled my mind." He frowned when the guard only looked more anxious.

"My lord," blurted the guard, "we—that is, me and the other lads on gold watch tonight—we are sorry to have to disturb you, but we truly don't know what to do with the man." _What man?_ Thorin had the unpleasant suspicion that he'd missed the beginning of this conversation. "Lord Balin granted him permission to enter the treasury unescorted, and we'd not heard elsewise, so we let him pass, but he hasn't come out and..."

While, as a rule, Dwarven sentries did not fidget on duty, the way this one shifted from foot to foot suggested that he badly wanted to. "Could you... go in and speak to him, sire?" the guard asked, eyes pleading. It must be Bard, for who else among the Men would have such leave? After the debacle of earlier, however, Bard was the last person Thorin wished to meet, and since they'd taken up residence in the Mountain more than a month ago, he'd avoided the treasure chambers, keeping abreast of the ongoing sort of the gold through daily tallies, figures and assessments laid out in neat, black columns and rows on paper. So it was with a coil of apprehension in his gut that Thorin nodded, gesturing for the relieved guard to lead him to Bard.

Bard, thankfully, had not ventured far into the treasury. Thorin remembered well how treacherous the footing was where the gold piled deep; every step had sunk into the loose mass of coins and gems until he crawled upon all fours like a beast in his haste. He descended the stairs slowly this time, to where Bard sat at the bottom, gold sloping away from under his worn boots to the cleared workspace where Dale's fourteenth share was being separated by cartweight for storage in an adjoining vault. The man seemed wholly fixated on a jewel-encrusted goblet he turned over and over in his hands, his back to Thorin, but he tensed before Thorin was within two flights of stairs from him, somehow aware of his presence and his identity.

"Great as the tales are of your grandfather's wealth, I never imagined that it would be like this," said Bard. He glanced briefly at Thorin as he came to stand on the steps, a little farther down past Bard so their heads were level. Thorin could admit, too, that he was not eager to make eye contact, though gazing out over the vast expanse of gold, glittering in the firelight of scattered cauldrons, brought him no joy either. He felt nothing. _Not mine_, he thought, strangely detached, as his eyes traveled from a filigree necklace set with opalescent stones to a round shield plated in gleaming electrum. _Not mine._

From Bard's low exhale, some of the strain between them easing, staring at Thorin's back suited him just fine. "I did not have the chance to tell you before," he continued after a pause, "but it was wrong of me to threaten you with war when you and your companions numbered only thirteen." He laughed, quiet and self-deprecating. "Fourteen, if one were to count the Halfling.

"How I expected you to produce, on short notice, a _twelfth_ of _this_... I don't know." Bitterness crept into Bard's voice, surprisingly old for one who could not have seen fifty years of life. He was younger than Fíli and Kíli, Thorin realized with a jolt. Younger than Ori and even Gimli, who Glóin had adamantly refused a place in the Company. "There wasn't much that I knew then, aside from my own anger and fear." The sentence ended in a whisper. Age was reckoned differently by their races, Thorin reminded himself, and Bard was considered a man grown, a father and a widower, a leader, yet...

"What blame there is to be had for events then surely must be shared by many," Thorin found himself saying. A ludicrous spectacle they must have been! He could almost believe it to be a comedy in poor taste, were it not for—his lip twisted, and he had to squelch a vicious desire to grind the coins beneath his heel into gold dust, fruitless as that would've been—the ruin they'd courted, squabbling over baubles as their foes marched against them in force. If Elves, Men, and Dwarves had united sooner, could they have mounted a stronger defense? Spared the lives of some who'd died? "Myself not least. There were older heads who acted no wiser than you." His words were blunt. The Elvenking, for one, and Gandalf Thorin did not recall handling the situation much better. Would he never be done choking on the what-ifs?

Suddenly, Thorin tired of this talk. _Of what use are regrets?_ "Lord Bard, why do you think on these things?" he asked. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bard flinch. Though whether at his tone, which was sharper than Thorin intended, or the title that sat so inexplicably ill with the man, he could not guess. When Bard did not reply, Thorin turned to look at him and immediately felt lower than a snake for giving his temper free rein. _As if I'd learned nothing of patience these past months._

Vulnerable was how Bard seemed and young, despite the silver threaded through his dark hair. He'd set down the goblet he was studying to draw his coat tight about his body, shoulders hunching and gaze focused on some point to the side, swallowed in the gloom of the chamber's far reaches where even the gold shone dim. Thorin was struck by a memory, of the wild fox that slipped into his camp one night while he chased rumors of his father in Dunland.

He'd slept lightly and kept Deathless close at hand, as the Dunlendings were not known for their hospitality to travelers, constantly warring with the Horse-lords to their south. At the rustling of grass, he rolled into a crouch from his blankets, expecting to confront brigands, only to find himself face to face with a lean fox, its russet fur limned in white by the moon. Bard's stillness was the same as that fox's—wary and watchful, in a way that exceeded human senses and instincts, poised on the edge of flight. Thinking of how quickly the fox had vanished, darting into the brush as Thorin stared, frozen in mid-motion, he opened his mouth to apologize.

But Bard spoke first. "You're right," he said, voice strained. He let out a forceful sigh, eyes closed, and tension leaked from his tall frame like juice running from a smashed fistful of berries, red and tart. "What's past is past. It... doesn't matter. Not anymore." Thorin wondered who Bard was trying to convince. Men were no better than Dwarves when it came to forgetting and forgiving, for all that their lives were half as long; they bequeathed their hatreds to their children and their children's children, until the reasons why they fought were utterly lost.

"I suppose I owe you an apology, too, for the guards waking you," Bard added, expression one of wry humor and false good cheer that Thorin inwardly winced to see. "Won't happen again." His words took on the sound of a dire vow.

"No," Thorin said hastily. "No, it's no trouble." He would've been awake regardless, and he understood the need to escape the confines of one's room, the walls shrinking to form a tomb of stone, even if he didn't know what haunted Bard so as to drive him from his family's side to wander Erebor's empty, echoing halls. "You have my leave to go where you wish, at any time, save for personal quarters and areas that have not yet been deemed safe by the surveyors."

Upon further reflection, however, Thorin would rather not have curious Lakemen exploring the foundries and gold mines. There were clearly aspects to the cohabitation of their peoples that they had to discuss. With a frustrated noise, he amended, "Keep your men to the guest wing and main entrance hall for now. I'll have floor plans sent to your rooms with common and restricted spaces marked." Bard nodded, looking a little nonplussed. "Your permission to enter the treasury unescorted stands, and I shall inform the guards not to disturb you while you're here." At this, Bard slumped in faint relief, and Thorin felt mildly pleased that he'd read aright the man's motives for sitting alone, surrounded by cold, silent treasure, while his children slept sound in their bed.

"You have my gratitude, Oakenshield," said Bard. Thorin inclined his head in acceptance, before turning back to the gold that held no more attraction for him, their conversation over. He did not mind Bard's presence so much once the other grew accustomed to his, the last of Bard's seemingly ingrained caution unwinding in small, gradual increments as the two of them waited together for the predawn change in watch.

Thorin had discovered, through mortifying experience, that if he were not in the guest wing when one of the Company came to fetch him for breakfast, they would rouse everybody and ransack the entire Mountain from top to bottom in search of him. At least the Company was as embarrassed as he when they finally tracked him to the dining hall, where he'd been looking in confusion for the cooks and at the bowls of porridge abandoned half eaten on the tables. Balin, especially, had the air of one who hoped for the floor to melt away under his feet, when Bofur, with his typical frankness, blurted, "Oh, thank Mahal you're alive!" to Thorin's raised eyebrow, his stiff, suspicious, "And why wouldn't I be?"

A great deal of evasive stammering had followed, Thorin torn between being touched at their concern and insulted. He was not an honorless coward, to deny Dís her due. _And Mahal created us to endure._ But, watching Nori and Ori take turns unsubtly kicking Bofur in the shins as Balin and Dori offered conflicting explanations, none quite credible, Thorin could not fault them for this momentary faltering of their faith in him. They had stood staunch by his side in all else. At Óin's shooing, they'd resumed the important business of eating, and except for a final gentle cuff on the ear that Bifur gave Bofur as they walked to their table, Thorin in the middle, it was a day like any other.

Later, Thorin would realize how fortunate he was that the searchers had begun in the upper levels, with their many precipitous ledges and bridges, while he took several of the less traveled passages up from the catacombs to the dining hall, obliviously doing a spot of surveying. That nobody, then or afterwards, thought to question the night guards, gone to their beds before all the commotion.

He was more careful now to keep the Company informed of his whereabouts, helped by a new awareness of what his restless spirit sought, and the Company not so quick to distrust him with his own well-being, their fears proving to be unwarranted in an episode they were not keen to repeat. Not that Thorin had any doubts search parties would be sent out again if he were ever so delayed as to not make an appearance by mid-morning.

And thus, when he heard the guards greet their relief, voices tiny and distorted, he started back up the stairs, feeling lightened. The cringing part of him that had dreaded seeing the treasure—expected the fever-hot lust for gold to burn in his flesh, reignited—was more settled, though Thorin knew it would never be excised completely and was resigned to the fact. Thankful, even, for another check on the sickness. _I pass the test._ He smiled mirthlessly. _This time._

Only a couple steps and he stopped, unable to leave without a word to Bard. Who was, in truth, not like to notice the lack of courtesy. Bard's interest in the gold had apparently waned; his eyes were instead on his hands, the right rubbing at the bruises around his left wrist as if he could, against all logic, _press_ them out of existence or at least deeper into the skin, out of sight. Thorin cleared his throat, but whatever he planned to say—_good of us to have had this talk, breakfast will be served in two hours, come to me should you and your men require something?_—it withered into an uncomfortable silence when Bard turned on him a gaze as blank as wet slate.

Not hostile, no, Thorin decided, uneasy at these unpredictable shifts in Bard's mood. _Merely... remote._ Bard was a plain man not given to fancies, and it was jarring to see in him a detachment which rivaled that of the Elves, body a vessel spun of air and glass for a mind that was elsewhere. "Can you find your way?" Thorin finally asked. He ignored the double meaning and the crawling sensation that he spoke to a husk in the shape of a man.

Just as Thorin reached out with a cautious hand to shake the nearest shoulder, Bard's consciousness snapped back into his body. He jerked, as though he'd been startled awake from a dreamless sleep, blinking. Thorin grunted when Bard's hand reflexively caught his by the wrist, wrenching his arm sharply away and down. Luckily for them both, before Thorin's own battle-honed instincts could mistake Bard's actions for an attack, Bard looked, still a bit dazed, at where his fingers were locked vise-like around Thorin's wrist and hastily released his grip, expression horrified.

"F-Forgive me," Bard said hoarsely, head bowed so that his hair hid his face. He clenched his trembling hands together, fingers twisted at ugly angles, his forearms resting heavily upon his knees.

Thorin flexed his fingers; Bard's grip had pinched some of the feeling from them, though it would take more to bruise Dwarven skin as Bard's was. "I am overtired, Oakenshield," Bard explained, as Thorin eyed him in belated recognition. "I—" Swallowing, Bard tried to continue, but his voice broke. The wounded noise that forced its way past Bard's gritted teeth hurt to hear.

Dwarves were, on the whole, a hardy folk, their bodies and wills created to resist the evils of the world, whether these were of another's making or simply the vagaries of fate. Azanulbizar and the terrible war that had ended there, however, not thirty years after Erebor's devastating loss had been misery too much even for them. This wild veering between a numbness to everything except images in the mind and an almost painful acuity of the senses, the sights and sounds, smell and feel of normal life overwhelming, _threatening_—it was familiar to him.

_He was but a bargeman_, thought Thorin. While Bard had certainly proved his skill as an archer and wielded a sword well enough to survive the battle, slaying dragons, orcs, and goblins was nothing he'd ever trained for. Even without the added burden of leading the stricken people of Esgaroth when the Master was negligent, which by all accounts was often in the weeks following Smaug's demise.

"Then you should rest," he suggested, tone deliberately light. Bard was calming—remarkably fast, and Thorin wondered at his iron control—the only remaining sign of his distress the hand that had fisted in his hair, tugging, in what seemed like aborted attempts to pull it out by the roots. "Come," Thorin said. "Let me show you the shortest path from here to the guest wing." He could not turn his back on the man now and, what's more, he had no desire to spend his morning dealing with panicked Lakemen, asking after their missing lord, if Bard didn't return to his children before they woke. Bard's son held little trust in Thorin. _I cannot blame the boy for that._

Bard nodded curtly, standing in a motion just as abrupt. "I would appreciate it," he said, and his voice was filled with jagged gravel. Yet it was clear from Bard's rigid stance that he wanted Thorin to forget his moment of weakness. This need, too, Thorin understood.

He and Bard walked in mutual silence back to the man's quarters. Dwarves moved through the halls, most heading to breakfast, but there were few Lakemen about, Bard's people likely exhausted still from the daylong journey to Erebor. They were greeted with respectful calls of "my lords" and "Your Majesties" that Thorin acknowledged with brief nods. Bard beside him, trailing a bit, wasn't as inclined to answer, stiffening each time, and Thorin thought with an inward huff of disbelief that Bard had better accustom himself to receiving deference sooner rather than later.

_You are not a bargeman anymore, Dragonshooter._ Thorin would bet the whole treasury against Nori or Dori, who had something of a reputation as a cardsharp, that a crown would grace Bard's head inside five years, over his protests. Fíli had been right: Bard cared nothing for titles and sought no power unless it were to protect that which he loved. It would not have occurred to him that Thorin could value face above life, refusing to treat with him so as not to appear weak before the gathered armies of the Elvenking and Iron Hills alike. Erebor and Dale depended on them reaching a closer accord; Thorin was content to be grudging allies with Thranduil, whose realm did not border his, but not with Bard.

When at last Thorin stood in front of Bard's door once again, watching him enter with a whispered thanks, he said, haltingly, "Your daughter. What was her name?" It would not change the past to hear it nor lessen his guilt, but Thorin was not who he had been, and it mattered to him now. That he recognize Bard's loss in this small, inadequate way. He straightened under Bard's coolly assessing stare, shoulders tense to brace for a bitter rejection or, worse, accusation. _Ruin and death._

A faint voice drifted from within the room, high and childish—Bard's surviving girl. "Da, is that you? Where did you _go?_" A rustling of blankets and an unhappy murmur from Bard's son. "I woke, and you were not with us, l-like... But Bain wouldn't let me go find you..." Thorin was struck by how Bard's features softened.

Grim was the word that came most readily to mind when describing Bard. His look was wiry and angular, weathered by hardships that had left their mark in the thin creases at the corners of his eyes and mouth, the calluses on his work-roughened hands. At the first sound of his children, however, his brow smoothed and affection lent his face a warmer cast. The walls of suspicion that seemed an inseparable part of the man, keeping all at arm's length, split apart, but it was less the forcible breaking Thorin had witnessed earlier than the opening of a hidden door, a path to Bard's heart known only to two. A pang stabbed through Thorin. _Was I not the same with Fíli and Kíli? Frerin and Dís?_

"Go back to sleep, sweetling," said Bard, half turned towards the bed. "I was just on one of my walks. We're safe here." There was a drowsy hum of agreement before his children fell into the steady rhythms of rest, their breath whooshing quietly, soothed. A suggestion of softness lingered in Bard's eyes when he turned back to Thorin, the hard line of his jaw gentled. "Sigrid. Her name was Sigrid." He wondered who had named her, Bard or his departed wife.

Thorin nodded. Bard spoke his daughter's name in mingled pride and grief. With another nod—he understood, remembering Fíli and Kíli clad as the princes they were in gilded mail—Thorin made to leave, but Bard stopped him. "The two of your companions who died in the battle, Fíli and Kíli?" he asked, tongue careful around the names. "Were they not your sister-sons?"

"Yes." More than a month had gone, and Thorin could finally meet such a question with composure, even if his throat threatened to close. Still, he hoped Bard was not interested in further talk. He was weary and wanted to escape to his duties; Balin and he were scheduled to begin ordering the mines for re-exploration in the spring.

Bard, to his relief, merely sighed, saying, "I see," tone low but not unkind. After a solemn pause, the man bowed his head to Thorin, right hand over heart in a fashion that he must have learned from the Elves, and shut the door. _A start_, Thorin thought, cautiously encouraged. Not until he stepped into the dining hall—Balin, a spread of schematics on his table instead of food, was already consulting with the master mining engineers among the Dwarves from the Iron Hills—did Thorin realize he never found out which of his ghosts awaited him, deep beneath the Mountain.

**· · ·**

Over the next week, Thorin saw little of Bard. At least during the day. From his tentative questioning of Bain, who fetched meals for his father, Bard slept at odd hours and had since Laketown's destruction by Smaug near two months ago, stress and injury exacting their toll. Thorin's further attempts to convince the man to seek the healers were frustrated—

_"Da doesn't like to be touched by strangers when he's like this," said Bain, expression mulish, while Thorin reflected sourly that the Elvenking, who'd set Bard's broken arm after the battle, seemed an exception._

—but at last Bain, biting his lip worriedly, agreed to take a jar of Óin's all-purpose topical salve with a promise that he would give it to his pigheaded father. _To do with as he pleases._ Thorin discovered that he had new sympathy for Gandalf, whose mysterious agenda thus far largely consisted of bludgeoning the free peoples of Middle-earth into doing the best thing that they didn't want to. Surely, though, _he_ could not have been so willful? Recalling trolls and goblins, the glimmer of hidden moon runes, Thorin decided that it was probably easier on what remained of his pride to let bygones be bygones.

Not that Bard was remiss in his duties, conferring daily in his rooms with the men and women he'd charged with seeing to the others, his son running messages for him. His people were eager to be of use, at his urging, once their initial awe at living in the Mountain subsided. Though stonemasons they were not, there were skilled carpenters among them who were quickly recruited to inspect and repair common furniture as well as the many pieces that were now without owners, emptied of personal effects.

It had not felt right to chop into kindling serviceable beds, dressers, tables, and chairs, beautifully carved under the layers of dust, like what had been too damaged by fire or water to salvage. Yet neither did it feel right to do anything except store these abandoned possessions, the touch of the dead ghosting across knobs and armrests worn smooth. Bifur had suggested to Bofur, who proudly shared the idea with Balin, that an auction house be opened when more had taken up permanent residence and the proceeds set aside in a royal fund to benefit the sick and wounded, orphans and widows. Thorin thought that a fine solution. So, Dori was assessing the furniture with the Men and Ori compiling an illustrated inventory, when not cataloging the library.

Work on the main entrance hall was nearing completion and ahead of schedule. Bard's men could not help much with hammer or chisel, but their backs were strong, the reach of their arms long, and they did not shy from toil. Better still, the women had commandeered the kitchens, sparing Dwarves from meal preparations and everybody from the somewhat rougher fare that had been served since Bombur departed for the Blue Mountains.

Dáin had understandably chosen for fighting prowess and endurance, not culinary talent, expecting the forced march from the Iron Hills to end in battle, as it did—a fact that showed in burnt crusts of bread, the same porridge and soup day after day. Thorin did not fully appreciate what a difference Bombur had made before until their tables were again laid with flavor and variety. Sweet and savory, fresh meat and dairy, pickled fruits, vegetables, and fish—it was amazing how a satisfied stomach could lift the spirits. The kitchens never lacked for hands willing to haul buckets of water or peel onions by the dozen, if it meant they could sit by a toasty hearth, wreathed in the smells of wood on the fire and hearty cooking.

The women even found more palatable uses for Erebor's large stock of _cram_, which Thorin had imagined would go uneaten until there was nothing else. Besides grinding the stale biscuits into feed for the animals, they sprinkled crumbles of _cram_ on soups, fried strips of _cram_ in creamy butter, and baked chunks of _cram_ with milk, eggs, nuts, and preserved fruits to make a warm dessert, topped with sugar, that was, shockingly, delicious. A cluster of smiling women and Dwarves exchanging recipes as they scrubbed clean tables and dishes became a regular sight in the dining hall.

Bard's daughter, meanwhile, whose name Thorin learned was Tilda, was making headway in what he had thought a hopeless cause.

It was an aching joy to hear the Mountain's halls ring once more with the laughter of children, whatever their race. They were fascinated by Erebor's nooks and crannies, formed of stony geometric planes so unlike the rickety wooden structures of Laketown, and the innumerable stairs ascending and descending to places wondrous in their mystery. Soon enough, the guards were recruited by frazzled parents to keep their children, who were getting lost looking for the dragon's hoard like brave Mister Baggins, from mischief. Thorin could not but be amused at Bilbo inspiring a new generation of burglars. Wary of little fingers with a love for shiny trinkets, though, he posted keen-eyed Dwarves on every path to the lower levels.

All of the adults, himself included, breathed a collective sigh of relief when the children's energy finally settled down to a manageable level. Helped, no doubt, by the institution of daily lessons in reading, writing, and figures taught by an elderly couple, formerly the proprietors of Esgaroth's lone bookshop, and a Master Dofur, one of the Iron Hills' best draftsmen, whose generosity with his time was surprising until Nori told Thorin that his family was near as big as Bombur's.

"Get a couple gallons of mead into that dwarrow, and he'll talk your ear off about his ten, twelve bairns without stopping," Nori had said, chuckling. "Unless it's to talk about his wife!" Thorin was a bit skeptical—Master Dofur seemed as unbending as the long birch rule he rapped over the knuckles of his students should they dare be inattentive—but it was Nori and Bofur's business to know such things, the two of them gregarious and fond of drink and Balin's unofficial spies.

Of the Company, the children gravitated to Bifur and Bofur, Balin and Óin. Bifur delighted them with ingenious toys, birds with flapping wings and horses in gallop; rarely did Bofur come to supper without a giggling young passenger seated upon his shoulders, hands pulling on the ends of Bofur's hat like reins.

As for Balin, Thorin was convinced that they were enamored with his beard, snowy white and fluffy as a cloud. Balin had developed a bad habit of letting some pint-sized waif of indeterminate gender nap pillowed on his beard during his afternoon councils, having found that the presence of a sleeping child precluded any raised voices. The children's favoring of Óin, however, both pained Thorin to see and was the most welcome.

When they were at lessons or play, it was easy to forget that these children had survived the loss of their home and, for too many, family in a firestorm such as had shaken hardened warriors decades their elders. But in the healing ward, their faces scrunched in concentration as they rolled bandages and sorted pungent herbs for medicines, their scars were impossible to miss. Whether a burn stretched pink across the back of a girl's arm or a boy who resembled his father so in his grim resolve.

For the assistance, Óin was grateful, always glad to impart his knowledge and patient with their well-meant mistakes, but he was even more grateful for how they cheered his other charges. While those with less severe injuries had already been released from his care, save for periodic appointments to check that broken bones were mending in place, dozens remained still, in need of long term rehabilitation or too sore wounded to move much at all. These Dwarves and Men took quickly to the children. Sick, perhaps, of brooding on their own ills and wanting to provide comfort instead of receiving it.

And, in one corner, a dying Elf was being woken to life.

Eight days passed in the Mountain before Thorin steeled his nerves to speak to the redheaded she-Elf. Tauriel, the Elvenking had named her. Only Thorin need not have bothered. She could tell him nothing of his sister-sons, lying motionless on her cot as if carved whole out of pale marble. Her form and features were unmarred except for the arm, her left, she'd lost at the elbow in the battle. Yet were it not for the slow rise and fall of her chest, she could've been a particularly lovely corpse, her open eyes staring and vacant. He'd listened, incredulous—

_"The Elven healers warned me of this." Óin glanced pityingly at her from where he and Thorin stood off to one side, whispering. "Their kind is blessed with great power to heal from wounds that would kill a Man but can waste in grief, if there is not the will to live."_

_Anger spiked so swiftly in Thorin that it stole his breath away. He had to bite his tongue not to hiss that this Elven interloper had no right to mourn either of them and, by doing thus, deny him answers. It was with difficulty that he asked, tone harsh, "Is there any chance of recovery?"_

_"Mayhaps," said Óin, but he was shaking his head. "She's young for one of them, and her ties to these shores are strong. It was hoped that, should she wake, she might make her peace with the lads here, in their home, but..." He sighed, then, steps heavy, left Thorin to scowl furiously down at the oblivious Elf._

—as Óin explained what ailed her. Thorin had stayed, despite wanting to strike that impassive Elven face, there at the foot of her bed until his rage ebbed into a bleak nothingness. Clasped tight in her one hand was Kíli's runestone, the deep gray shimmering blue and green, framed by her slender fingers. Kíli would not have given away his mother's gift to him lightly. Nor had it been received lightly, from what Óin had seen. The Elf refused to part with the stone, unconsciously fighting the healers who'd tried to pry it from her grasp, though she slipped further into dreams with each dawn.

Whatever affection bound Kíli and this Tauriel, it'd been true, for her as well as him. Thorin saw that now, too late. That she had fallen defending Fíli and Kíli, an Elven princeling made a certain terrible sense; there was little in this world as dear to Kíli as his brother, and she must have been close to Thranduil's son indeed, for him to have followed her to Laketown alone. _An Elf and a Dwarf..._ Thorin thought he might eventually have been browbeaten into suffering even so... unconventional a union, if only his sister-sons were alive to flout his wishes and the traditions of their people, Kíli defiant and Fíli at his brother's side, as always. Fíli would've plied every underhanded political trick he knew to win acceptance for the unlikely match, and neither would've been above exploiting their mother's undisguised desire for grandchildren to join her strength to theirs.

But Dís would never hold a grandchild in her arms, he remembered. Fíli was dead, and so was Kíli, the Elf he'd lost his heart to seemingly set on fleeing to the grave after him. A stifling pressure had welled in Thorin's chest the longer he gazed upon her, pushing at his ribs from within, but his skin was dry, gritty, like sand scorched by the sun.

He at last left her to sleep, his bones creaking as if they couldn't support his weight and fully expecting that he would soon hear word of her death: a quiet, merciful passing between one breath and the next. Was this what the Elvenking had meant? Thorin could believe that of Thranduil, whose notions of kindness were harsher than most. It had come as a surprise to, not four days after the Lakemen arrived, learn from Óin that she'd responded to Tilda.

Tilda had taken to sitting with the Elf when done with her chores in the healing ward, the fingers of one small hand twined around hers over the runestone and the other stroking her fire-bright hair. Óin suspected that Tilda missed her sister and looked to Tauriel to soothe that absence, the Elf having made a strong impression on her during their time together in Laketown. It'd been Tauriel who led Tilda along with Fíli, Kíli, and him to safety through the burning maze of canals, Óin said softly. And Thorin had closed his eyes with a silent curse at fate, fearing that Bard's daughter was doomed to grieve for an Elf she hardly knew.

A girl humming lullabies to one who could not hear them—the tableau was all too clear in Thorin's mind and piercing, beautiful in the way of shortlived things. It was cruel, he'd felt, to let her hope so, firmly insistent that Lady Tauriel was too brave not to wake, almost as brave as Da, that she merely needed a kind touch and a kind voice to guide her back to them, but Óin confessed he hadn't the heart to stop her, and neither did Thorin in the end nor, it appeared, Bard and Bain.

"Da says to let her try." Then, crouching to hug his sister close, Bain told her gently, "You're doing good, Tilda." Watching the girl clutch at her brother, head buried against his shoulder as she nodded, Thorin realized in a sudden flash of insight that this was more than the compassion of a sweet child or even the longing for a loved one departed. The stricken Elf reminded Tilda of somebody she cared deeply for, and he had a guess as to who.

Yet Tilda's faith proved right. The Elf woke, briefly, squeezing the girl's hand and rasping, "What a lovely song..." before falling into a lighter sleep. Tilda had beamed with happiness for the rest of the day while Óin berated himself for not considering the role of song in Elvish healing, though he admitted sheepishly to Thorin that he was ill-qualified to administer this treatment, being rather tone deaf.

His patient improved steadily thereafter, _sung_ back to health by a dedicated cadre of more musically talented volunteers and, of course, Tilda. In truth, Thorin thought the whole affair queer. He grimaced. _Elves!_ He would be able to speak with this Elf as he wished to in the spring.

All eagerly awaited the melting of the snows, heads filled with plans to build and plant. Thorin, though... Part of him dreaded the great labors ahead. Glad as he was for the air of industrious optimism that pervaded the Mountain, it was exhaustion that he felt more often than not. Weariness weighted down his limbs as the hours of the day blurred into one continuous stream, time marked only by meetings and meals. Watching his people and Bard's mingle in the dining hall—the Men were fond of staging plays there in the evenings, alternately bawdy tales of romantic entanglements and swashbuckling adventures in exotic climes—always brought a smile to his face, but he sat apart, in the midst of the laughing crowd. As if he, too, were asleep and dreaming.

It was the way he spent his nights, however, that made his sense of unreality palpable. Conscious of his need for rest, he would take to his bed determined to not leave it until morning, and he was on occasion successful in that, for which he was grateful.

Other times, Thorin woke, in the dark and to no sound except his own breathing, hours before the sunrise. He'd sighed at this return to routine and dressed with practiced movements; there was some stubborn inkling in his mind that the arrival of the Men would change his weakness, as so much else. Kíli must have wanted news of his Elven captain, who had herself so recently been awoken from slumber. Thorin didn't find out.

As he walked the familiar path through echoing halls to the catacombs, his feet instead decided to detour again to the treasure chambers, moved by a vague hunch. He questioned the guards, learned that his instincts were correct and, after a moment's hesitation, entered, trying to skirt the places where the gold piled deep as he searched for Bard.

Thorin had no clear idea then of what to say to the man, aside from assuring himself that Bard was as well as could be expected given that he was frustratingly elusive and his son evasive when Thorin inquired after him. _If you could give me less cause to worry..._ Resisting the urge to glower at the heaps of coins and gems, Thorin reminded himself that Bard was a stranger still to the scrutiny, by friend and foe alike, under which a king lived.

Bard had turned his attention to where the weapons scattered throughout the hoard were being collected. Some would go to Erebor's armory, the plainer axes and shields scaled for Dwarven hands, but it had not yet been settled what was to be done with the rest. There were arms and armor so elaborately ornate that it was not fitting for them to be wielded or worn by common guardsmen, though the Company had donned and used similar before the battle for lack of anything else, and a significant number of the finest items were of a size for Elves or Men, kept to gift and trade. Thorin had huffed, unsurprised, to see Bard at a rack of bows, testing the draw of one curved like Kíli's, the tips bending away from the archer.

While Thorin preferred the sword or ax, he was not entirely incompetent with the bow, able to identify different weapons and roughly judge skill, though not with Kíli's studied expertise. All Dwarvish bows were of this type, for reasons Thorin didn't understand despite Kíli's repeated attempts to explain it, and the design was not unknown to the Elves, even popular with the Easterlings, but the Men of the Lake seemed to favor straighter longbows. Bard, certainly, was as intent on examining the bow in his hands as if he'd never before held one of its like. For possibly the first time since they met, Bard was relaxed and unconscious of it, his guard down; Thorin had not missed the rare chance to observe the man without his notice, stopping half a dozen paces from him.

Kíli was unstinting in his praise of Bard the Bowman, Thorin remembered. He'd sought his sister-son's opinion as the Company, wet and miserable, clung to the pilings beneath the boardwalk alongside Bard's home, waiting for the signal to make their ignominious entrance. Bard's skill with the bow was an anomaly, his weapon finer than anything else he owned as well as illegal, given how he'd secreted it away in a compartment in the deck of his barge; Thorin hoped to take a better measure of the man by assessing that skill. And if it could brighten Kíli's wan face to talk of the archery that was his passion, to be of aid in counseling Thorin on a matter the rest knew naught of...

"The skill of the Elves is as great as the tales say," Kíli had enthused, not the slightest bit deterred by Dwalin's low growl or Thorin's sour look. Worse, neither of them could dispute the truth of Kíli's statement. No archer Thorin had ever seen or even heard of could've matched the feat of hitting target after live target while hurtling down a whitewater river, footing dangerous, though the blond Elf's fleet grace put the lie to that.

"But to meet a Man whose talent doesn't pale in comparison..." Kíli mused, brow furrowed. "Uncle, I wager that he's shot before with Elves." Kíli's voice was wistful beyond his younger self's dream to learn from every master of the bow no matter their race, but Thorin had been too startled to notice it then. Was it not indeed strange that a simple bargeman had called the Elvenking by name?

At his demand for an explanation, Kíli had observed that Bard nocked his arrows, which were so long as to be almost unwieldy, with a twisting side sweep from his angled back quiver—Kíli tried to mime the motion for Thorin's benefit; Fíli had to fish his sinking brother up out of the water by the collar—that was unlike any taught by Men. Or at least Men west of the Misty Mountains, Kíli admitted, thoughtful. He was not familiar with eastern traditions past what stories he'd managed to wheedle from traders of Haradrim archers thundering into battle atop giant oliphaunts.

"There's something Elvish about that bow of his, too. The curve of it or..." Kíli groaned in frustration. "If only I could've gotten a closer look at it! The wood is yew—I'm sure of it—but it's taller than any hunting bow and must draw at a hundred pounds and ten, twenty, maybe more. Yet he shoots with accuracy enough to leave my hand unscathed!" He studied said hand, turning it this way and that, fingers curled around an imaginary stone, with a frankly admiring gaze. "Speed's not bad either, though not so quick as the Elves, of course. His range must be, _oh_, two, three..." Fíli and Thorin had exchanged a bemused glance at Kíli's distraction; they'd long figured that questions of archery left little room in his head for other concerns. But Kíli was smiling, the pain of his wound temporarily forgotten, so they did not interrupt.

Watching Bard run sure hands over a bow's smooth wood, Thorin could at last see something of what Kíli had so admired in his fellow archer: clean lines and a steady, unshakeable control, no sign of strain across arms, shoulders, and a back strong enough to easily draw a bow a full head taller than a tall Man. He wondered if Bard had trained with the Elves, as Kíli guessed, or if he came by this effortless power naturally as soon as a bow was placed in his hands. Glimpsing the boyish smile on Bard's face, his eyes bright, Thorin thought it might be the latter. Though he'd meant to leave the man in peace, he found himself saying, "I will make you a gift of any of the bows here, if you wish it."

He regretted speaking barely two words in because he'd well and truly startled Bard. Who tensed and spun in a tight quarter circle towards Thorin's voice, bow lowering to nock an arrow that his hand reached for but wouldn't find. Upon recognizing him, most of Bard's wariness eased, Thorin was inordinately pleased to note, though he felt the long-suffering sigh that followed was uncalled for.

"Oakenshield," Bard greeted with a nod, before putting the bow he held back in place on the rack with the others. His fingers were reluctant to part with it, lingering on the grip of polished horn. "Your offer is generous," he said after a pause, "but..." He pulled his coat about his body against the subterranean chill. "These are very fine weapons."

Thorin had frowned. He couldn't imagine why that would be a problem. "And you are a fine archer. Surely, the skill that slew Smaug deserves a bow worthy of that deed?" No matter his losses and grievous they were, Bard ought to be proud of killing that beast, Thorin deemed, avenging in one mighty blow the dead of Esgaroth, Dale, even Erebor. His forefather Girion, whose sacrifice had not been in vain, and his daughter Sigrid.

According to Fíli and Bofur, who'd caught the fateful moment, Bard hadn't even loosed the black arrow from the windlance like Thorin originally believed; Smaug was too old, too canny not to recognize and destroy the weapon that had nearly been his doom two centuries prior. Rather, Bard had broken his great yew longbow making a shot that, by all rights, should have been impossible. The black arrow was no normal arrow: twice the length, if not half as heavy as its size implied. It was, after all, forged hollow and of a lost metal alloy in a crafting no Dwarf alive could equal; Thorin would've liked to see it in action under better circumstances.

Bard apparently didn't agree, shaking his head slowly. "No," he insisted, jaw tight and the fingers of his left hand flexing. He smiled mirthlessly at Thorin and added, "I have a history of losing fine gifts. No, a simple bow suits me." This had struck Thorin as inexplicably foolish. And, judging by Bard's forlorn expression, was not what he desired either.

In battle, a warrior's life depended on the quality of his arms as much as on the strength of his sinews, the courage of his heart, and for this reason, Dwarves traditionally forged personal weapons, matched in every way to their owners, under the critical eye of a mastersmith. Also coveted were heirlooms that had faced the trial of combat and proved their mettle; the Elves had returned to the Company their confiscated belongings, among which was an ax Thorin knew Glóin intended to bestow upon Gimli. Whether the honor of receiving a weapon that had hewn trolls, goblins, and giant spiders across the breadth of Eriador, from under the Misty Mountains to the depths of Mirkwood would mollify Gimli's resentment at being barred from the victorious quest? That remained to be seen, but Glóin was hopeful.

Grunting in dissatisfied annoyance, Thorin was about to press the issue, maybe as a diplomatic overture Bard couldn't refuse, when the man cut him off, asking, "Perhaps you could tell me what these are?" He gestured at a table laid with oddities from Rhûn and farther abroad that Thrór had collected, courtesy of foreign emissaries and traders eager to win the King Under the Mountain's favor.

One of the later additions—a thin, edged throwing ring of intricately etched gold and dark steel—had landed him and Dwalin in the healing wing to the combined wrath of Óin, Fundin, and Thráin. The concept of spinning the handleless ring off a finger or two was not hard to grasp, but the execution had involved more ducking than aiming and too many fingers sliced for their fathers' comfort. Thorin allowed himself an inward chuckle at the memory, before glaring at Bard. Who glared back, arms crossed and utterly unapologetic about his transparent attempt to forestall more questions.

Taking several deep breaths, Thorin reined in his temper to a voice that sounded rather like Balin's. _It would not do to fly into a rage over so petty a slight._ He hardly understood himself why Bard's stubborn resistance to his every boon irked him so. Did the man not know how to accept a kindness, unless it was on behalf of his people? Or was it Thorin who he rejected, even if he could not do the same to the King Under the Mountain?

_I shall wait and try again_, he decided. There must be something Bard could want of him that was not for others. And then he would finally be free of this... _This debt_, thought Thorin. Relief had shown briefly on Bard's face when Thorin walked to the table, picking up a pair of fishhook-shaped blades. He swung them and latched the ends together with a _snick_, telling Bard the tale of two travelers, master and apprentice, who had entertained his grandfather's court with an acrobatic fighting style from some far country on the shores of the eastern sea. It was another happy memory and for a few hours, as he recalled for Bard the origins of these outlandish weapons, Thorin was untroubled by shades of the past or future.

So began a new nightly routine. Thorin would open his eyes to darkness and silence, hours before dawn, dress with practiced movements, and find Bard in the treasury. He wondered if the man was always awake at such times, sleeping during the day. Though he supposed wryly that he was not one to chastise Bard for _his_ nocturnal wanderings.

Their meetings grew more comfortable, as Bard came to expect him, yet happened in a world apart. A secret between the two of them that neither acknowledged in the light of day. Frankly, Thorin shuddered to imagine what the Company would say of this; Bofur would probably make an unfortunate comparison to lovers' trysts. Yes, better that nobody else was privy to these dealings of his and Bard's. It was not as if they discussed anything of consequence, after all.

Bard had a curious mind and many questions, upon realizing that Thorin would answer them. While this surprised Thorin, contrary as it was to his impression of Bard as a guarded man whose interests were strictly practical and focused on his family's well-being, it was a good trait in a king. The second night, Bard was studying the sorted tableware, squinting at his distorted reflection in a large silver platter, when Thorin arrived.

"What's the use of so many fancy dishes?" he said, tone plaintive. Thorin had let out a sharp bark of laughter, Bard eyeing him strangely. Fíli had actually demanded the very same explanation of Dís, etiquette the only lessons he had little patience for; Thorin himself had once asked a busy Thráin, who'd answered, distracted, "Your mother enjoys the envy of her guests," in his wife's hearing and was subsequently banished to the settee in the sitting room for a week.

"It is..." Plates in silver and gold, stacked high on the workbenches. Next to them, bowls and goblets of various sizes studded with gems and, on the ground at the foot of one table, a massive soup tureen, embossed with ram and boar heads, that could probably serve as a Hobbit's bath. Even the cutlery shone golden, handles and the flats of the knives engraved. "...an extravagance." Bard snorted. A corner of Thorin's mouth had twitched upwards at the inelegant noise. "Most of this was for formal occasions—banquets with hundreds of guests, state receptions—or simply decoration," Thorin added mildly.

He felt it prudent not to mention that the royal family and many nobles regularly dined upon fine china accented in gold, so as not to offend Bard's frugal sensibilities further. The man was frowning at the full place settings spread on another table, part of a painstakingly reassembled collection of at least three hundred pieces undergoing a final check before storage. He cleared his throat, rubbing at the back of his neck with one hand, then said to Thorin, "Do you... Could you teach me?" There was something shy in his gaze.

Seeing Thorin's blank look, however, Bard shifted nervously, glancing away to trace a slow finger along the filigreed rim of a plate. "I... I was born to wood and clay. Cheap tin and glass. Haven't owned more than a dozen dishes since—" He stopped abruptly. It was a long moment before Bard continued, voice thick. "I would not shame my house or my people now that"—he swallowed, struggling with the words—"now that such riches are mine. Not in _any_ way." This last was low and fierce, certain, while Bard's claim of his rightful wealth was not.

Thorin had raised an eyebrow. Bard sounded as if learning table decorum was as grim an endeavor as preparing for war. _Perhaps it is_, he thought carefully, considering for the first time that, for all Bard's boldness, almost insolence, he had no experience of court life.

As Thorin's tutors, Thráin, and Balin had repeatedly instructed him, kingdoms were forged not only to the hard ring of gold and steel but by the softer wiles of diplomacy, which flattered and enticed as much as bargained and threatened. He'd just never had the temperament to be _aggressively_ sociable, like Balin and Dís could be, charming their companions with their impeccable manners before the appetizers were finished. But looking at Bard, who was growing more wary as his silence lengthened, Thorin was sure he could be of aid in this. The Dwarves of Erebor had often hosted the Men of Dale and vice versa when Thrór still valued the goodwill of his allies.

Hundreds of candles would burn in great chandeliers throughout his grandfather's hall as Men and Dwarves feasted and danced into the winter night, the kitchens serving up course after course on some of these very plates as the wine flowed freely and musicians of both races played the sprightly tunes that didn't call for partners of like height. Disgracefully little work would get done the next day, Thorin remembered with a fond smile, and a season later, Girion, as his father had before him, would extend an invitation to a fair in Dale, the whole year thus marked by celebration and the renewal of ties.

He shook his head; Bard was staring at him strangely again. The man's expression had then turned startled at hearing Thorin say, "Let us begin with what's in each place setting." Naming the different forks, Thorin was reminded of the harried Dwarf, master of protocol, who'd taught him, Dwalin, and Glóin. Bard, fortunately, proved a more apt student without the aggravations of cousins, and they passed a couple nights revisiting the festival days of Erebor and Dale. _An old tradition that may yet be revived_, thought Thorin, at the intrigued spark in Bard's eyes. He would like that.

The fourth night, they spoke of the Mountain's metal and mineral wealth. Bard had found the trays where gems were being sifted by type and quality. He'd been astounded by the variety of stones: rubies red as blood and citrine topaz, emeralds, sapphires, and amethyst; banded onyx and cat's eyes, iridescent opals, milky green jade and pearls of every shade; glittering diamonds by the handful. His voice was a whisper, hoarse with stunned awe, as he asked, "Do all these come from here?"

Picking up a perfectly round pearl, Thorin rolled it between his fingers, admiring its rosy gleam and hesitating. _Trust the man to hit upon that._ He shot a disgruntled look at Bard, who had eyes only for the fiery play of colors across a large blue-green opal. _His aim is uncanny with more than arrows._ Sighing, Thorin admitted, "No. Though the Mountain is rich in gold and to a lesser extent, silver, no gems but diamonds were mined here and that in limited amounts." It was inevitable that Bard would learn of this. "Much of the rest came to Erebor through Dale."

Bard seemed thoughtful. At last, he said, slowly, as if testing the soundness of his words, "I had wondered that my ancestor paid you in your own goods, but the necklace was not wrought by Dwarves?" Thorin nodded. Lord Girion's emeralds had been one of the richest commissions in Erebor's recent history: five hundred of the purest stones from Far Harad, set in silver and platinum by the guild jewelers of Minas Tirith, whose skill was artful even in the estimation of the Dwarves.

He knew from Balin that Bard had inquired after the necklace as the first shipment of gold to Laketown was being readied—out of curiosity, apparently, about a family legend—and been surprised to receive it back. For the splendid coat of mail for Girion's eldest son had never been completed, the Mountain's supply of _mithril_ always in high demand, before the coming of the dragon. And son had died with father in Smaug's attack, leading the city's defenders, while his mother fled down the River Running with his younger brother. Thorin wondered what Bard had done with the necklace.

"Could you tell me of these gems?" Bard had said. "Where they come from? Their worth?" There was an anxious note in Bard's questions. Thorin eyed the man and refrained from sharing his suspicions that hopeful traders would begin converging on Dale in the spring, drawn from the ends of the world by rumors of gold and a king new come to his crown. Bard would discover that soon enough for himself. _And will need his wits about him._

Finally, on the fifth night, Thorin lost his patience halfway through a description of Erebor's steam-driven coin presses that Bard had trouble following and said, "Do you not tire of looking upon gold?" Bard stiffened at his tone, the wariness that had gradually worn away as they met over and again returning like a bowstring snapping back into place. Thorin had but a moment to rue his temper.

"Gold may be a common sight to you," said Bard, hand clenched into a fist around the coin he held, "but not all of us have been so fortunate, Oakenshield." Thorin had to show his back to the man, stung, before he undid their accord entirely. He had not felt so very fortunate when leading his homeless and starving people, selling what few possessions they'd saved from the dragon for paltry coin so that their children, at least, would not go wanting. While it was true the Dwarves of Erebor had grown accustomed to wealth when the Lonely Mountain was still theirs, in a way, that made their exile harder to bear, hearts ever yearning for the faded glories of their past and filled with too much pride to be content ironmongering in the towns of Men. So his grandfather had gone to his doom before the gates of Khazad-dûm and him nearly to his.

Behind him, Bard sighed sharply. There was the clinking of a coin dropped to join its fellows, then he said, "I'm sorry. That was unfair of me." His expression was contrite when Thorin turned to him, nodding briefly in acceptance.

"In truth, I know not where else to go," Bard confessed. He laughed weakly. "Your map of the Mountain's rooms was hardly needed, for we are all too frightened to venture beyond the entrance hall. Even the young ones, though they enjoy daring each other to try the stairs." _In search of this very treasure_, thought Thorin, Bard catching his eye with an amused glint in his own.

"What I meant is that there is more to Erebor than gold." Perhaps he didn't have to explain himself, but Thorin's mind rested the easier for it. Bard's gaze cleared, lit once more by curiosity. _He does not seem so grim at such times_, Thorin mused, and fast on the heels of this came the realization that he wanted Bard to see Erebor's wonders, to hear of Erebor's storied history.

So many of the latest chapters in those annals had been marred by strife and death that he'd forgotten the years of plenty, when king and kingdom both were strong, with the friendship of Elves and Men. Now, as he recounted them for Bard, the details of happier days were blooming into life with color to shame a meadow of wildflowers in spring, vivid as they had not been since he sat by the fire in the home Dís built with her husband, Víli, telling a wide-eyed Fíli and Kíli similar tales. "I could show you some of the Mountain's other views, if you wish," he offered, aiming for casual but missing the mark, by Bard's stare.

Thorin refused to flush under that close scrutiny, spine rigid. Enough visiting dignitaries had likewise been guided through Erebor's halls—not by the King Under the Mountain himself, granted, nor in the dead of night without an escort—that Thorin did not think his suggestion so strange. He cleared his throat, clasping his hands together at his back, and looked down to nudge a goblet to one side with the toe of his boot. Just as he was about to retract his words as an empty fancy, Bard said slowly, "What do you propose?" Thorin's head snapped up, but he couldn't read Bard's face, in profile and partly hidden by his hair.

It was an odd business, trying to schedule their sleeplessness; neither of them was willing to brave the day with this. Bard admitted, teeth gritted, that he was usually out of bed half an hour before Thorin, once he was sure his children would not wake at his absence. Nodding and silently wondering again what haunted Bard so, Thorin said, "Would you consent to wait in the dining hall for me? Only for the half hour, and if we fail to meet there, I'll come to you here."

After a moment's hesitation, Bard agreed. He still acted like a man worried, however, biting his lip in a way reminiscent of his son, so Thorin added, "The night watch keeps a pot of mulled wine warm on a side hearth in the kitchens. Help yourself to some, though if anyone asks, you didn't hear of it from me." It was an unspoken understanding that the lords and captains would feign ignorance about such minor liberties, despite the fact that most of them had themselves been guardsmen. A small, startled smile curved Bard's mouth. Thorin went to breakfast after they parted at the entrance to the guest wing feeling lightened and already planning which sights to show Bard.

Over the next few weeks, they roamed Erebor together. Their first destination was the grand amphitheater, which in a stroke of good timing was being surveyed.

While one of the most spectacular halls in the Mountain, the large fan-shaped room, stage at the apex, was best seen when the great chandelier of crystal and gold was lit, the walls and high ceiling gleaming with golden scrollwork and enameled mosaics of precious stones in every color. Dwarven aesthetics tended towards geometric lines, strong and angular, but the amphitheater was a departure of sorts; prominent in its design were polygons of so many sides that they appeared as circles from afar, set one within another in delicate, abstract patterns conceived by a dwarrow who was as eccentric as he was brilliant. The result was unique and utterly stunning.

Bard's reaction did not disappoint when Thorin led him in after pouring enough lamp oil, left by the work crews, into the runnels of the chandelier to burn brightly for a couple hours. The man's bemusement at being commanded to wait alone in the dark with one of their candles while Thorin rushed off to make preparations was swept away by his awe upon entering the amphitheater in all its shining glory. He'd cursed, a heartfelt oath that tripped from his tongue unintended, and Thorin had smirked.

Slowly and in appreciative silence, Bard walked the perimeter of the room, Thorin at his side. Finally, fingers tracing a shard of pearly opal that bore a passing resemblance to a leaf on a tree—if trees were towering columns of butterflies, their branches outstretched wings and their leaves feathers haloed in light—he swallowed hard and said, "I did not know that Dwarves honored the arts so."

Thorin grunted. He was well aware that Dwarves were commonly held to be uncultured brutes, at worst, who at best simply had no love for things that were not dug out of the ground, aside from fighting and drink. But Dwarves loved _craft_ above all, and exquisitely wrought notes of music were no exception, though they were more mutable than stone and metal. Music was a vital part of a young Dwarf's education for other reasons—

_"It teaches rhythm and, in ensemble, coordination," he told Bard, "skills that are needed at the forge." It was not unusual for smiths to sing as they shaped gold and steel hot from the fires, the ring of their hammers a counterpoint to the melody. "All Dwarves learn an instrument, though not all continue the practice past their majority."_

_Bard eyed him with interest. "And you, Oakenshield? What instrument do you play?" Thorin faltered in his steps, suddenly and inexplicably shy. _What did you expect, you fool?_ he berated himself. It was not as if it were any secret._

_"The harp," he said stiffly, trying not to sound defensive. It was a rarer choice among the nobility, who generally preferred string instruments to the wind, brass, and percussion of lower ranks, but his mother had loved so the harp's sweet and mellow tones._

_"It suits you," was Bard's judgment, his brow furrowed, and Thorin exhaled quietly. The memory of his mother's proud eyes as he recited for her the newest piece he'd learned curling warm in his chest, he asked Bard, "What of you?" Bard's reply was a rueful chuckle._

_"Never had the time," he said, shaking his head. "Or the temperament." Somehow, Thorin doubted that; the man could not have mastered the bow without patience and dedication. "My wife—" He stopped abruptly. It was long moment before Bard continued. "My wife... She played the clavichord."_

_That surprised Thorin, for such instruments, an invention of the Gondorian court, were costly and difficult to procure so far north. Even Erebor had only boasted a few, reserved for their most talented composers and instructors. Bard seemed embarrassed under Thorin's gaze, explaining, "I wed above my station," self-deprecating but not without humor._

_"She... used to tell me I could sing the thrushes from the trees," said Bard softly after another lengthy pause, eyes distant. The timbre of Bard's voice, rich with a faint quaver, caught Thorin; all the edges were rounded by remembered joy and an old sadness too deep for words. "I always jested that love had made her deaf as well as blind." And Thorin wondered._

—that they discussed on the companionable stroll back to the guest wing, neither in any hurry. The chandelier had been burning dimmer by the time they left the amphitheater, casting shadows that brought the mosaics to flickering life. Jeweled birds in wing and fish leaping through rolling waves, the deer hidden in spiraling growths of forest that Bard had delighted at finding—the images stayed with Thorin into the day and the next. Would it be fitting, he thought, to formally commemorate their return to Erebor with an evening of music?

Performances in the grand amphitheater were _occasions_, attended by everyone who could reserve a seat. All would dress in their splendid best for the gatherings before the show and during intermission, which Thrór and later Thráin often used to mingle and converse freely with their subjects, hearing news of births, marriages, and deaths, trade and craft, as well as rumors and, inevitably, talk of politics. Even in his sickness, Thrór had exercised his royal prerogative as leading patron of the arts to arrange the program.

The final curtain before Smaug came fell on the heroic saga of Azaghâl, Lord of Gabilgathol, and his defeat of Glaurung, Father of Dragons. His grandfather had been in a querulous mood for some days since Lord Girion sent word of sightings in the Withered Heath of a great flying beast, convinced the Elvenking had a hand in alarming the Men, but he'd relished the slaying of Glaurung, applauding loudly after the cleverly constructed wooden puppet, animated by three Dwarves from within and gilded in golden scales, retreated offstage, mortally wounded by Azaghâl's dying blow. Thrór watched avidly, eyes gleaming, as Azaghâl was borne up by his men, who marched from the field to a paean that was widely esteemed as one of the finest ever scored.

Grimacing, Thorin could only speculate now who Thrór's mind had seen playing Azaghâl's role or if, in his blind arrogance, he truly believed Erebor safe from the dragons that had plagued the Grey Mountains and finally driven them from there. He had not balked at revising history to suit him, after all; while relations then between them and the Elves were strained, the ancient Dwarves of the Blue Mountains had not failed to hear of Glaurung's reappearance or his death at the hands of a Man. _A tale told again, with a change of actors._

In the end, Thorin reluctantly set the reopening of the grand amphitheater aside as a matter he needed Dís's counsel on. His sister had a far more comprehensive knowledge of concert pieces than he and would be able to select a suitable program, he did not doubt, that could both be staged with the performers available and was politic, striking the right tone with the audience.

Which, Thorin hoped, would include Bard and his family as special guests of the king. The sound of a full orchestra in the amphitheater, playing to a rapt crowd, was an altogether different experience from the sight of the empty, if impressive, room. Sections of the walls were paneled in wood, the floor carpeted, and the seats upholstered in rich red velvet to enhance the acoustics. Bard could not have been afforded many opportunities to attend such entertainments and would enjoy it, surely. He frowned. Though the fabrics were in want of a thorough cleaning, maybe replacement. _In the spring_, he promised himself.

Encouraged by the success of their first outing, Thorin next showed Bard the one crop that was cultivated under the Mountain. It'd been difficult to explain that it was not grown for food or fodder or, indeed, any sort of consumption, as even the Shire's famed pipeweed was—

_"Mushrooms?" Bard looked nonplussed, then with a sly glance at Thorin, added, "One might mistake you Dwarves for Hobbits." Thorin snorted. No people could covet mushrooms as Bilbo's did. On the road to Rivendell, he and Bombur had shared every conceivable mushroom recipe, until Thorin was ready to bake _them_ stuffed with sausage, cheese, and onions._

_"They are not for eating," Thorin said firmly. "Have you not marked the green lights that shine only in the dark?" He pointed at a clay pot the size of a Man's head, top covered with a latticed dome, set on a high, recessed shelf cut into the wall for that purpose._

_Bard studied the pot, gone dim in the light of their candles, noting the others like it spaced at regular intervals up and down the hall they walked. "I thought perhaps they were some glowing ore," he said with an easy shrug._

_"Such ores do exist, aye," conceded Thorin, "but they do not live and make a light of their own." Phosphorescent green painted the stone with decorative emblems, each lattice different. "Foxfire, we call it."_

_"Does it ever... burn out?" Scratching his chin absently, Bard tested the idea of poisonous mushrooms that were not bound for the plate or an apothecary yet were prized enough to farm in quantity. A source of light that did not smoke as did wood and coal, however, was as valuable to the Dwarves as food and medicines._

_Thorin nodded. "They must be replanted in richer soil by rotation lest they die." In the decades since Smaug took the Mountain as his lair, all the foxfire pots had guttered out, but the fields still grew in their damp hall, though deprived of compost from Erebor's kitchens and privies._

_"Mushrooms," Bard repeated, shaking his head in disbelief. "Glowing mushrooms..." His smile was wondering and young in that way which had at last stopped startling Thorin. " 'Tis passing strange." Thorin hid a smile behind his hand._

—until Bard stood gaping on a ledge over a floor sprouting in mushrooms, the vast hall bathed in an eerie green light that was steadier than that cast by any flame. As they descended the stairs, to Thorin's amused forbearance, Bard paused frequently to just stare. While at first impression, foxfire burned everywhere, the mushrooms were actually planted in rows; open aisles ran between the wide, shallow beds, which were stacked three high past Bard's waist. Deep troughs lined the walls for water and compost, tools hanging above them.

"Is there not a spot in this whole mountain that's unadorned?" asked Bard with a huff, upon noticing the thin veins of silver branching across the floor. The beds themselves were supported by carven columns and arrayed in geometric shapes that drew the eye to the silver, glimmering in reflected green.

Thorin merely raised an eyebrow, arms crossed. He thought the answer to that rather obvious. Bard huffed again, before turning to the mushrooms, tentatively poking at a large one with his finger. When he raised the finger for inspection, rubbing at the skin with his thumb as if expecting it to begin glowing, too, Thorin had to cough or risk laughing at the man. After this, Thorin felt it safer to survey the beds for brightness, which would decide what clusters were harvested for the pots, Bard eyeing his back suspiciously.

Unkind though it probably was, Thorin found a certain pleasure in nettling Bard. He did not believe it to be the ill will he'd once borne towards the man; that had, like other far older grudges, been washed away by blood. Yet neither could he say exactly why he was gripped by an urge to constantly try Bard's dour self-possession. It vexed him to see Bard sitting alone at a table in the darkened dining hall he never visited at mealtimes, mind a thousand leagues removed from his body as he nursed a cup of mulled wine and waited for Thorin.

Was Bard remembering his daughter or brooding on the dragon? The horrors of the battle or the years of toil ahead in Dale? Part of Thorin knew there was wisdom in leaving Bard be—not all sorrows and cares wanted to be lifted; this he well understood—but now that he'd seen Erebor resplendent through Bard's eyes, marvels around every corner unsullied by memories of its fall, he could not help prodding the man into shows of emotion, whether interest or exasperation. The Bard who groused irritably at being led up endless flights of stairs—

_"How is it," muttered Bard, the thread of a whine in his voice, "that anyone had the energy to work after climbing so many stairs?" He slumped heavily against the wall on the landing, wiping at the sweat beaded on his brow with the back of one hand._

_Perched several steps above, Thorin said, "We Dwarves are hardier than you Men," though it came out a little short of breath. He did not like to admit it, but his stamina was not fully recovered, and he was as glad for this rest as Bard. Whose face scrunched comically, torn between skepticism and pique at Thorin's glib reply._

Do not be surprised, when you ask an impudent question, to receive an answer in kind_, thought Thorin, with some glee. "And I suppose wood and oil, coal, _gold_—all was carried from the Mountain's foot to its peak upon your backs?" Bard scowled, daring him to claim Dwarves needed no mechanical aid to move supplies by the ton._

_He pretended confusion at Bard's disgruntled gibe, asking innocently, "Is there another way to do it?" Bard squinted at him, not fooled in the slightest. With a grunt, he pushed off the wall and stretched his legs, before reaching his arms over his head, back arching catlike._

_There were, in fact, freight lifts that stopped at all levels of the Mountain and were as often packed with Dwarves as with loads of wood, oil, coal, and gold. There was a reason, too, why residential quarters were situated above the mines and forges, despite how it complicated ventilation, and the treasury below everything else save the catacombs._

_But Bard didn't have to hear of that. "Come," said Thorin, suddenly impatient. "The night is waning as you dawdle." He beckoned the man to follow and turned determinedly to scale the stairs ascending into the gloom._

_A sigh behind him, then footsteps. "Can you at least tell me where we are headed?" Bard sounded plaintive; Thorin smiled. He would forget his complaints soon enough, a moment Thorin looked forward to._

—and chuckled at the almost playful touches hidden in the Mountain's carvings was one whom Thorin could, perhaps, come to call friend. It would serve to bind Erebor and Dale closer, Thorin reasoned, and foster by example amity between their peoples: a sign that past grievances were forgiven, if not forgotten. But after Balin, concerned, mentioned that he'd been distracted for days, asking why without asking, Thorin was forced to consider that his motives in wandering Erebor with Bard were not so impersonal as securing their alliance. In council and at meals, a part of his mind riffled through his memories for their destination the next night and the next, choosing and discarding as he thought Bard might like.

_Am I so lonely?_ It was not as if he lacked for company and good company, in the stout Dwarves who called him their king and whose work in restoring their home, with the cheer in their hearts as much as by the craft of their hands, made him so, so very proud. While they'd become as comfortable as could be hoped meeting and speaking to one another, Bard was still a hard man to know, caution sitting under his skin like a battered suit of armor he'd worn in so many battles he no longer felt its weight. At times, it set Thorin on edge.

There were no dragons here that must be slain, he wanted to rail. No orcs and goblins, nor even a conniving Master, jealous of your wealth and renown. Bard should count himself fortunate that his greatest foe was not the flaws in his own character. As swiftly as it came, however, Thorin's ire at Bard would pass. For who, hurt once, would not try to deflect the next blow?

_It is a cruel jest to be so discontent with what men have spent their lives seeking._ He would abdicate his crown without hesitation, accept exile or death, if only Fíli and Kíli could take his place, and he knew Bard had never desired more than for his children to be happy for the rest of their many days. Did Bard, too, feel a failure and a fraud? Given how he flinched at his title, Thorin suspected so.

Such words would not be received well, of course, so Thorin did not say them, having learned something from his mistakes. What harm was there, after all, in laying aside worries and obligations for a few hours every couple nights? He thought his ghosts would allow him this, just until the Men departed for Dale in the spring, and Bard's daughter—Sigrid, Thorin reminded himself—had not seemed one to begrudge her father any joy. They continued to roam Erebor together, walking as if in a pleasant dream and careful to not wound each other unto waking.

He showed Bard the lake tucked beneath the Mountain's peak. Placid and black as the night sky, the waters mirrored the seven sparkling white lights hung from the ceiling in tribute to Durin. At Bard's insistence, they rowed out in the skiff used to sound the lake's depth at its center; Thorin was certain Bard suggested it to discomfit him and sat with arms folded over his chest, face impassive, as Bard took them on a relaxed loop around the lake with long, practiced strokes.

Dwarves did not fear crossing deep waters, per se, but neither did they enjoy it. Some could not swim, including several members of the Company, and they were often so laden with weapons, provisions, and other accoutrements when traveling that they sank under the weight. Though, Thorin remembered with a wry smile he turned on the lake, he could at least trust Bard not to drown him this time.

When finally Bard had rowed his fill, Thorin told him of how the lake was created—

_"Thráin, first of his name and founder of the Kingdom Under the Mountain, bade his folk to harness the waters that ran then in nameless little streams down the slopes to drive the great wheels in the forges," Thorin said, voice echoing above the lapping of ripples against the far walls and sides of their boat. "And so was born the Running River."_

_"I'd always heard that the river sprang from the rock at the Mountain's base," mused Bard, frowning. He pulled easily on the oars, rhythm unbroken as he unerringly steered the skiff towards the stairs that descended into the lake. "Was that wrong?"_

_"No, but it is not the full tale." Thorin stared at the sweep of the oars, usually more paddles, since Dwarves hadn't the reach of a tall, lean Man. "_A_ river flowed from the Mountain into Long Lake before the Dwarves came, but it was not the waterway it is now." Bard hummed, and Thorin thought he might like to see the spring, too. It was surprising after its own fashion._

—as their boat cut smoothly through the water back to anchor, trailed by waves capped in candlelight and the flickering white sheen of Durin's crown of stars.

He showed Bard the library, so extensive it occupied them for two nights. The map room was one of the few common halls to boast windows: narrow and angled as the Mountain's sides were, stretching from ceiling to floor. Upon the latter, in the central space enclosed by shelves and reading tables, was a map of the known world formed of inlaid marble and granite in many colors. Silver ran the rivers and lakes, the seas etched with breakers, and gold touched the peaks of the mountains like the sunrise.

Bard found the lands to the east of particular interest, unfamiliar as they were to him. While south of the Sea of Rhûn was a country as strange to Dwarves, from the Red Mountains in the far north to the Yellow Mountains that led to the eastern sea, their kin had traveled. Contact with the Ironfists and Stiffbeards, the Blacklocks and Stonefoots was sporadic at best, but maps were always among the wares traded, along with rumors. Dáin, for one, had been better informed than most; Lady Eir was of the Stiffbeards and met her husband at Azanulbizar, when last the seven clans had joined their strength.

So engrossed was Bard in his study of the map that he failed to notice Thorin clearing his throat, at first politely, then more forcibly. In the end, Thorin moved to block the man's path as he slowly walked the length of Rhûn. The half startled, half sheepish expression on Bard's face when he looked up from Thorin's tapping foot to his pointedly arched eyebrow was a new one.

They did eventually see the rest of the library. As Bard browsed the shelves, each rising to the ceiling in levels lined with balconies, staircases, and sliding ladders—

_"Is this Dwarvish?" asked Bard. He flipped another page in a tome, resting open on a lectern, made entirely out of beaten gold plates and bound with silver rings. It was one of dozens of its like shelved on this level alone; the note of incredulity had yet to leave Bard's voice._

_Thorin glanced over and said, "Aye, though it is a secret language." Bard acted like a boy caught stealing sweets, stepping hastily back from the lectern and one hand raking through his hair. "We do not teach it to outsiders. You may still look upon it, of course," Thorin added after a suitable pause, smirking._

_He almost laughed at the glare Bard shot his way; if it were not so undignified, Thorin thought Bard would've stuck out his tongue at him, as the children of Laketown did in their games. Watching Bard lightly trace the engraved runes reminded Thorin, oddly, of Elrond, however, and that exceptions had been made in the past._

—Thorin answered his questions and eyed the statues scattered throughout the library of Dwarves holding not axes or hammers but scales and sextants, chisels and quills.

He showed Bard the gas lights in the old quarter, once the metal pipes that carried the gas from a chamber discovered deeper beneath the Mountain than even the catacombs had been deemed sound—

_"They're... blue," Bard whispered. Each light was trapped in a globe of gold and glass fed by piping in the walls. The characteristic blue flames spiraled like a string of falling stars down into the abandoned mine, converted for shops and markets after the gold was played out. It was a striking sight and, Thorin knew, one that had cost his forefathers in blood as well as sweat to build._

—and the spring from which the River Running flowed—

_"Do not touch the water," Thorin warned. "It is as hot as if it'd been set in a kettle to boil." Bard, crouched beside one of the steaming pools in the rock, nodded but continued to peer at it curiously. "Legend tells that the spring is heated by Mahal's own forge under the world," he said, debating whether to invite Bard to bathe in the lower, cooler pools. Men could be strangely prudish at times._

—until it became so routine to meet Bard at night it was a shock to see him in council during the day.

A week into the new year, celebrated in solemn fashion with an evening of hymns, Bard had finally shown his face at supper. Granted, towards the end and only to schedule an audience with Thorin to begin talks on the reconstruction of Dale. He did not stay to eat, greeting some of the Men before leaving for his rooms again, steps hurried and his son at his heels with a tray of food. Thorin stared after him until Balin coughed to get his attention.

"That one's not too fond of company, is he?" said Bofur, to grumbling agreement from the others around the table. _He does not object to mine_, Thorin thought absurdly, then, shaking his head, sent word for Master Dofur to attend the council tomorrow afternoon. Bard had plans of Dale he wanted them to review, and Dofur was a skilled draftsman known to him.

Bard's plans were more sketches and not any kind done by surveyors, though they'd been drawn on the oversized sheets of thick parchment used by the Mountain's architects and engineers, marked in one corner with Erebor's official seal next to an empty bracket for the maker's personal stamp and signature. "Courtesy of Lord Nori," Bard explained at Thorin's questioning look. He hung by its strap on the back of his chair the tall, sturdy leather tube, embossed with the same seal, that he'd stored the plans in. "Gilvagor drew these for me after the battle." His mouth twisted into a rather sour expression. "He was my Elven guard, assigned to me by King Thranduil, and had some talent in art. I do not know if they will serve as guides for your builders."

Thorin exchanged a tolerant glance with Dofur, who was thumbing through the loose sheets, stopping only to stroke his beard. _Elves!_ The vines crawling up the walls were meticulously detailed, the path of every straggling branch traced, and in one drawing was a thrush perched upon a cracked windowsill, so lifelike Thorin imagined it would cock its head and take wing at any moment.

Still, the shape of the stone was apparent and some sense of the wear, in the Elf's shaded textures. There were multiple views of Dale's streets and squares, as well as high angle perspectives of the city quarters that this Gilvagor must have climbed the Mountain's arms to draw, his long Elven eyesight put to good use.

_You have not been idle_, thought Thorin, amused to learn that what he'd previously believed to be restful strolls about Dale, a king acquainting himself with his kingdom, were in fact Bard working, very much against his healer's commands. Thorin hoped, for this Elf's sake, that he at least had the self-preservation to forbid Bard from scaling too many heights in their surveys; Thranduil's wrath was not a thing to be courted lightly.

Bard rubbed his chin with one hand, the other searching the papers spread across the table for an annotated map of the whole city he pulled out from the pile with a pleased noise. Anxiously, he asked, "What do you think, Master Dofur?"

Dofur hummed contemplatively, then nodded. "These will serve. I'll have to draft properly configured prints for the stonemasons to work from"—he tapped the simple measurements jotted in a bold hand along the margins of the drawings—"but I expect no more than a few hours' surveying on site will be needed, to test the foundations and match the existing rock, before construction can begin, weather allowing." Bard sighed to hear this, at last sitting heavily in his chair. "With your permission, sire?" Man and Dwarf both turned to him.

"Granted," said Thorin. "To our allies, the Men of Dale, Erebor shall task four shifts of fifty Dwarves each for the rebuilding of their city, the force to increase by another hundred during the summer months." Bard's eyes widened, and even Dofur seemed a trifle startled at the numbers, before grunting in approval. Balin, of course, keeping the record of this council, was unsurprised; he and Thorin had discussed the matter in advance. With the aid the Men had freely given this winter and, more than that, the indomitable spirit they'd shown, as resilient as any Dwarf's, Erebor's current residents would be glad to help in Dale, and Thorin's kin from the Blue Mountains would not refuse him.

"That..." Bard swallowed. "That is generous beyond my expectations, King Thorin, but do you not need most of your hands to labor in the Mountain?" Out of respect, Thorin pretended consideration; in truth, his mind was set. While, yes, much remained to be done—the mess in the foundries and Gallery of Kings, for one, had yet to be put to rights—the greater part of it was inspection and cleaning, sorting the countless possessions discarded as their owners fled the dragon. Thorin gripped the armrests of his chair hard. How fortunate, he reflected bitterly, that Smaug had been too lazy or too greedy to rise often from his bed of gold.

"Work on the Mountain's halls will proceed apace with our kin from the Iron Hills and Blue Mountains coming in the spring." Thorin forestalled Bard's protests with a raised hand. "You forget, too, Lord Bard"—he frowned slightly when Bard flinched—"that unlike Dale, Erebor is not open to the elements. Fair weather or ill, we can labor, and we shall have all of the winter to devote our efforts to the Mountain alone." Bard looked down at the map of Dale, the city framed by his hands, brow furrowed. _Must you be so stubborn?_ Thorin thought. "I'll not have it said that the Dwarves of Erebor let their friends live without sound roofs over their heads to stay the rain and strong walls to shield them from the bite of the wind. No, do not seek to move me from this, for you shall fail."

Halfway through his speech, Thorin began to feel a little... embarrassed. A feeling not lessened by the way Bard stared at him and Balin, too; Master Dofur, at least, was politely ignoring his liege's sudden stream of impassioned words. But Thorin meant what he said—every single word—and had vowed to himself near a month ago that he would care for Bard's people until they were more prosperous than before Smaug destroyed their home, so he gritted his teeth and finished speaking. A long pause followed, then Bard said, with a small, wry smile, "You make a persuasive case, my lord. I concede and gratefully so, on behalf of Dale."

Thorin nodded, ducking his head to clear his throat and hide behind a fist the smile tugging at the corners of his own mouth. "Now," he said, tone businesslike, "I suggest that we focus our energies on repairing one sector of the city, the least damaged perhaps, large enough to comfortably house your people and any others—I'd guess several hundred at most—who might join you from Laketown or farther abroad in the coming months." Bard arched an eyebrow at that, skeptical, but Thorin was confident in the draw of Bard's leadership over the Master's and of his fame as a dragonslayer, with wealth exceedingly great.

At any rate, the man did not object, simply pushing the map forward for Thorin and Dofur to study. He pointed to the part of Dale sheltered against the Mountain's southern spur, which had escaped more of the devastation wrought by dragon and battle than any other by virtue of not being on the direct line of attack from the valley's entrance to Erebor's gates.

The next couple hours were productive and, by the end, Dofur had a tentative schedule of buildings for the work crews to restore, with former inns and boarding houses given precedence. Thorin was so satisfied with what they'd accomplished that, as their meeting wound down, an invitation for Bard to sup with him was on the tip of his tongue.

Bard did not cooperate, however, saying with a curt shake of his head, "We have yet to discuss the matter of payment." His face was set in hard, grim lines; Thorin sighed inwardly and caught Balin's eye, where he found an irritatingly knowing glint. He stifled the urge to grimace. Balin had been right, as usual.

_He_ had hoped to defer this topic until some estimate of the labor and material required could be made. And, he admitted, in the interest of beginning his official relations with Bard as Lord of Dale on a friendlier note than how he'd treated with Bard, a Man of Laketown. Balin had bluntly told him that he was a fool to think Bard would delay chiseling into stone the specifics of their deal, too wary and too proud, as well, to accept charity with no promise of recompense in turn. What's more, as kindly disposed as the Dwarves were towards the Men now, fair trade must be the foundation of the peace between their kingdoms in the future, as it was in the past.

Part of Thorin had realized he hoped in vain. Bard was not one to suffer being indebted for long—in this, they were much alike, though Bard, frustratingly, was not as conscious of what he was owed as he was conscientious of what he owed—but the Men's resources were few, their choices fewer, and Thorin would not beggar them when they were still all but homeless. Seed and feed, stock, iron and oil, cloth. A dispossessed people had an unrelenting need for gold, Thorin knew all too well, without also bearing the cost of rebuilding a city. _Nor do I wish to shame you_, he added silently, taking in the thin, white press of Bard's lips.

"While none can gainsay you in how you spend your gold, we should not like to receive it back," Thorin finally offered, trying to keep his voice neutral. Bard would not appreciate condescension and pity even less so. "In light of the events that brought us to this day, I'm inclined to waive payment for our services until Dale's fortunes are once again sound. There is no rush to—"

"No." The word cut through his as cleanly as Orcrist through a goblin's neck and with near the same force. "We have the means to pay you this year for this year's work: not in gold, but in food." Bard's eyes, shadowed by anger, bored into his. _So much for not giving offense_, thought Thorin, holding tight to his own temper. "A portion of our grain harvest, roots and greens, apples," Bard continued, syllables clipped as if they pained him to say. "Was that not the way of old between Dwarves and Men?"

_You know well that it was._ Dwarves could till the land at great need, but their hands that shaped stone and metal with unsurpassed skill were clumsy in sowing crops and harvesting them, the earth reluctant to yield them this bounty, and they did not have the ease of Men with horses or oxen. In practically every way, the partnership of their races was ideal. Food in exchange for gold and steel. Which the far roaming Men would trade and wield to extend their dominion while the Dwarves remained content in their craft, unassailable in their mountain fastnesses. "Be that as it may," said Thorin, "and as welcome as a return to such an arrangement would be, I could not countenance it if—"

"It is not your place to allow or forbid it," Bard snapped. "King Under the Mountain you are, but we are neither your subjects nor your vassals." Thorin narrowed his eyes, stung. While it was undeniable that the Men were at a disadvantage, dependent as they were on the goodwill of their Elven and Dwarven neighbors, somehow, in the wandering course of their nights together, he'd come to believe that Bard trusted enough in his honor now to rest assured that he would not exploit that weakness. Injured pride—_do you think so little of me?_—and a weariness his shoulders threatened to slump under warred within his breast.

He had done what he could to show the Men that Dwarves could be generous to their friends, with no talk of debt or bargains, and he'd felt that a strong rapport had been built in the weeks their people lived and worked side by side, any lingering ill feeling from their quarrels before the battle soothed by the care that sprung from familiarity. But, clearly, Bard was unconvinced of their—_his_—intentions.

"This is all that we would give freely," Bard continued, chin tipping up in challenge even as his throat moved nervously, "and it is worth your labor." And until Dale's once lucrative trade contacts in the south and east were re-established, dealing in silk and spices, precious gems, and other imported luxuries much in demand from Erebor to the Woodland Realm, foodstuffs were also the only commodities Bard _could_ offer. "Do not think that, by refusing, you can"—he paled, seeming almost fey in his determination—"you can force us to stay beholden to you, until you want to take a favor of your choosing."

A strained silence descended. _Where is this... defensiveness coming from?_ Bard had been pleased with their reconstruction proposals. Thorin was sure of it; he recognized the looseness of limb as Bard pointed out the locations of buildings, likely prospects for repair, from when they walked back to the guest wing in the predawn hours, conversation easy between them and the corners of Bard's eyes crinkled in a smile. The pinched expression on Bard's face now, neither the guarded nor angry suspicion that marked their earliest association, made him half a stranger to Thorin again. He could not help scowling, frustrated.

Master Dofur glanced from him to Bard, deft fingers quickly rolling up the drawings of Dale. Rising from his seat, he slipped them back into their holder, the strap of which he then slung over one arm, not a motion wasted. "Sire," he said, with a brisk nod at Thorin, "as I have the plans and know my lords' wishes, should I—"

"Yes. Go." Thorin did not look at the other Dwarf, gaze fixed still on Bard. Who broke their stare to study his hands, clasped tightly together on the table before him. "I expect preliminary drafts of the discussed spring renovations to be ready for approval by Lord Bard and me in a fortnight," Thorin ordered, noting, again, how Bard flinched at being titled. He had fallen out of the habit of addressing Bard so, Bain the one who relayed official messages to his father, and could not be certain, but Bard seemed unusually tense in his reaction, the muscles of his shoulders bunching under his coat.

After Dofur left, bowing and assuring Thorin that he would do as bidden, Thorin sighed slowly and said, "Lord Bard, I would not deprive your people of needed food." Bard's fingers were red with the force of his grip, save for a crescent of white at the tip of each nail as they dug into his flesh. "Additional supplies are due to arrive from both the Iron Hills and Blue Mountains that should see Erebor through the year"—a lean year, Thorin admitted to himself, without as much in the way of fresh ingredients as Bombur would no doubt prefer—"while you cannot say yet whether the Desolation will prove fertile."

It was true that Dale had once been Erebor's cornucopia, rich in grains, fruit and vegetables. Equally true, however, was that none could expect the land to recover its full productivity in a mere season after centuries of lying fallow under the depredations of the dragon. He did not understand why Bard insisted upon this, and his confusion made his tone sharper than he intended. "Look to Dale first, Lord Bard, before you see to the Mountain."

Bard's jaw clenched, though he did not meet Thorin's eyes. "As we do not presume to instruct you in mining," he said, voice low and harsh, "do not presume to instruct us in farming." And the short leash Thorin had kept his temper on snapped. Much as he wanted to reach an accord with Bard—and the disappointment that pierced his chest was a barbed arrow, sinking deeper than he could've guessed—he would not stand to be insulted like this any longer, his every word misconstrued, without an explanation. But Bard gutted his indignation before he could open his mouth and say something regrettable. Which, Thorin thought, was probably for the best.

The soft noise that Bard made, all tension leaving his body in a rush as he curled inwards, was that of a man in breathless misery. As Thorin watched in rising alarm, Bard rubbed a trembling hand over his face and straightened, looking up at a spot on the back of Thorin's chair past his shoulder. There was a brittleness to Bard that Thorin could not remember seeing since that first night the Men spent in Erebor.

"My sincerest apologies, Your Majesty," said Bard, his speech more formal than Thorin had ever heard from him. The careful enunciation, as if Bard feared his tongue might falter, did nothing to allay Thorin's worry; the rounded sounds of Bard's accent had almost disappeared. "Your concerns are not unfounded, but..." He swallowed, briefly biting his lower lip. "When the dragon came, it left our fields and pastures undamaged. While some of our sheep and cattle fled into the woods, with the help of the Elves, we were able to recover most of the animals lost and harvest one last crop of, of squashes, carrots and onions, beets, parsnips..."

He trailed off, voice growing quieter and shakier until he stopped with a shuddering breath. Thorin waited for Bard to continue; the wooden armrests of his chair creaked in his grip. Finally, with a sharp jerk of his head, Bard finished, "Added to the grains to be shipped upriver from Rhûn and aid from the Woodland Realm, there will be food enough to keep us through the spring, when the fields can be replanted, till the summer harvest, and I..." On the table, Bard's fingers twitched, digging into the surface before he spread his hands flat once more, though his expression did not change—blank as wet slate. "The Master of Laketown has granted Dale exclusive rights to work the farms on the upper shores of the lake for the next five years and to fish in those waters for perpetuity."

That surprised Thorin and, in dawning realization, he studied Bard. Who simply looked worn and not at all like a man who'd secured such liberal trade concessions, turning his head to stare blindly at a wall. A pang stabbed through Thorin at Bard's defeated posture. _"Could you teach me?"_ Bard was keenly aware of his inexperience in diplomacy.

_What was the price asked?_ He must have appeased the Master's lust for gold, Thorin judged after a furious moment's consideration, and was not proud of it. Picking his words with care, he said, "If a greater portion of your share of the treasure is to be escorted to Esgaroth than previously agreed upon, I would have you tell me, so that I may make the necessary arrangements." There was no reproach in his tone.

Balin and Glóin had deemed it prudent for a small contingent of Dwarven warriors to accompany Bard and the first shipment of gold to Laketown, wary of trouble in dividing it among the Men, and Thorin had sustained them, knowing that Bard himself had requested it and thinking to affirm Erebor's support of him, as the Elves had already done. The Men, then, had been the most disarrayed of the allied forces, the Master disgraced by his cowardice but nominally still their leader while Bard ruled in actuality but seemed altogether too ready to relinquish his new authority. For Thorin's comfort or, he suspected, Thranduil's, the Elvenking so unimpressed by the Master he had no qualms stranding the man beside Long Lake to march on the Mountain and take council with Bard alone.

While the distribution of the gold had been fair and peaceable, by the reports of the guards, this separation of Dale from Esgaroth as two sovereign realms was long in the making. Since, in truth, Bard slew Smaug, as the Master fled. Eyeing Bard's profile, the noble cast of brow and nose, Thorin wished again that there was more ambition in Bard's heart. Enough to oust the Master, at least, who was like to prove a thorn in everybody's side in the years to come, and bring Laketown under his crown.

"No," said Bard hoarsely, closing his eyes with a wince. "No new arrangements are needed on the part of Erebor." _But then_, Thorin thought, _it is that you value simple things_—food and shelter for his people, protection against war and oppression, a long life and a happy one—_above riches and power which sets you apart, even in the company of kings._ That it was the nature of the man which mattered most was a lesson Bard had yet to grasp, though Thorin could hardly blame him for fearing the corruption of gold and a crown, with the Master as an example, Thorin himself. Strange how little Bard trusted in his own strength and character, when so many others had found him worthy.

"This... boon," Bard continued, words halting, "It cost Dale nothing." Thorin was again surprised, for if not an appeal to the Master's greed... _Does he hate you so much?_ he wondered, the circumstances of Bard's departure from Laketown falling into a different pattern. Bard's face when he turned back to Thorin had blanched to a sickly shade of pale, but his dark eyes burned into Thorin's, defiant, and his voice when he spoke this time was unyielding as diamond. "The Master's price has been paid in full, the bargain struck, and it is not for you to question it."

Hearing Thorin's involuntary grumble at that, Bard softened a bit. "I'm... Thank you, for your concern. But though we are allies, some battles the Men of Dale must fight"—_and win_, the line of Bard's shoulders suggested—"alone. Not every problem can be solved through the fabled stubbornness of the Dwarves." A shadow of a smile curved Bard's lips.

Thorin still felt it a travesty that the Master had leveraged the welfare of Bard's people to exile him from the place of his birth like a common criminal—and sent him on his way with a beating from the Master's thugs, Thorin remembered; his hands clenched into fists he had to pry open by force of will—but finally he nodded and said, "Very well, Lord Bard. We shall accept a portion of your harvest as payment for our services in rebuilding Dale." Bard breathed a sigh of relief. "Perhaps we could meet during the growing season to finalize the details?" That would give Bard time to assess potential crop yields and Thorin to consult the records of Dale's past tithes; now that he'd agreed to this trade, he planned to offer Bard a more than fair exchange.

Looking tired, Bard nodded. A part of Thorin wanted to sail down the River Running forthwith and take the Master to task but, reluctant as he was to concede it, Bard was right. The King Under the Mountain had no say in Esgaroth and Dale's internal affairs or Bard and the Master's dealings with each other, unless invited by one party or both to act as a mediator. Bard slumped back into his chair, rubbing a trembling hand over his face. _At least officially_, added Thorin, with a vicious twist of anticipation. When the Dwarves escorted the next shipment of gold to Laketown, they would leave the Master with no illusions as to whose side Erebor would stand on in his petty feud with Bard.

Aloud, Thorin said, "Supper will soon be served. Shall we reconvene in a fortnight to discuss Master Dofur's preliminary drafts?" Debating with himself after Bard's muffled _yes_, Thorin then asked, hesitantly, "Would you care to join me? For supper?" Bard's head jerked up, and his stare was startled, conflicted. "You could stay for the play also, the third act of which is to be staged tonight," Thorin continued in almost a babble, to his own disgust, "though I suppose, as a quite popular production or so I've been told, you've seen it before..."

He steeled himself against the itch of Bard's gaze on him, until Bard chuckled lowly, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Is this _Lords and Ladies_? Tilda's favorite is the Queen of the Elves," he said. "She's been telling me that, when she's older, she'll go out into the woods every day so she, too, can meet the boy meant for her and enchant him to fall in love with her." Bard's smile turned rueful, even as his brow furrowed at the unhappy prospect of his daughter courting. "The Elves find the play rather... scandalous."

Yes, Thorin had no trouble imagining why they might. While the play was billed as a tale of the Elder Days, the King of the Elves bore a striking resemblance to Thranduil. "I assure you that the Dwarves are enjoying the performance immensely," he said with an answering chuckle. Then sobering, he asked again, "Will you come?"

For a brief moment, Bard seemed tempted, but in the end he shook his head, his smile fading. "No, I think it's best..." One hand kneaded the side of his neck as if a cramp there pained him. "I think I'll retire early, my lord, with my pardons." Thorin nodded, trying not to let his disappointment show.

"Then I won't keep you," he said, tone light, rising from his seat, Bard doing the same. "Before I forget, I have something for you." He pushed the hefty tome, bound in aged green leather, that had rested at his elbow the whole council across the table towards Bard, who thumbed its pages curiously. "An accounts ledger," he explained, as Bard drew a finger down the neat columns of figures and descriptions, "detailing several years' worth of imports purchased through Dale, where they came from and with valuations of their market price."

At Bard's grateful glance, he cleared his throat, adding, "It is yours. One of dozens of its like, so it won't be missed." Not strictly true, thought Thorin, but he would not risk Bard refusing his gift out of a misguided sense of propriety. "There is an index by kind of all the goods traded in the back, and I've taken the liberty of including several maps, of Rhûn, Gondor and Near Harad." Bard swallowed, gently shutting the book. He searched Thorin's polite expression—_just accept this kindness_—before tucking the book under one arm and, with a solemn bow of his head to Thorin that he held for a couple long heartbeats, departing.

Once Bard was gone, Thorin sighed and braced his hands on the table; his head swam, feeling like it might float off the anchor of his neck. _It went well_, he reassured himself. Though seeing as their previous negotiations had nigh on been a prelude to war, it would have been difficult indeed for them to have done worse. Thorin grinned and must have looked a fool because a mild voice said, "I did not know that you've been meeting with Bard."

He spun on his heels to face the speaker, flushing. "Balin!" That the other Dwarf was still here had entirely slipped his mind. Balin hummed, gathering his papers into a stack that he tapped against the table until the sheets were orderly and with a certain... expectant air. Thorin coughed into a fist, shifted from foot to foot, and finally decided that such cowardice was beneath him and squared his shoulders, clasping his hands behind him as if he were a truant child called before his tutor. "Balin, I—that is, we—" He stammered to a stop. Suddenly, he did not want to share the memories of his and Bard's nights wandering about Erebor together, seized by a formless dread that putting them into words would leave them shorn of warmth and texture.

Balin's eyebrow crept higher into his hairline as Thorin remained stubbornly silent. "Well," he said at last, with a quiet huff, "kings are entitled to some secrets, I'll grant, and whatever possessed the two of you to seek each other's company"—Thorin bore the shrewd gaze Balin pinned him with stonily—"I can't complain of the results so far, as it appears to have done wonders for diplomatic relations." A pause, as Balin dropped his chin to his chest and stroked his beard, considering. "Is this why you hoped to defer settling debts with Bard for our labors in Dale? Your... friendship?"

"No." His answer was quick. And thoughtless, for as soon as Thorin uttered it, he began to doubt his motivations. Truly, he'd reckoned the Men to be without the resources to pay them, save for the gold that would've been rather poor recompense had it been given only to be received back, not a coin having moved from Erebor's vaults, but had he reached that conclusion too eagerly, in a desire to spare Bard the indignity of begging for aid? Thorin didn't know. "Perhaps," he gritted out.

Nodding, Balin advised, tone measured, "Do not forget that you are King Under the Mountain"—_I could never_, a part of Thorin cried, recoiling from the very idea; the cost of his crown had been too great for that—"and the day may dawn when you must weigh Erebor's needs against bonds of fellowship, just as Bard may have to, after he comes into his own as Lord of Dale."

Thorin inhaled sharply, an ache pressing at his ribs from within. He was no stranger to the personal toll rank and responsibility exacted, politics casting a shade upon every relationship, but it'd been easy to ignore that he and Bard were more than a sleepless host indulging his sleepless guest's interest in his home. _It was not meant to last_, he thought, tongue leaden in his mouth.

A touch of Balin's hand on his shoulder startled him. "Thorin," Balin said, expression stern, "I did not mean that Bard cannot be friend as well as ally. With careful handling and"—he smiled wryly—"not a little luck, I wager, you and he need not fear being at odds. Leastways not over anything that can't be resolved by some hours of proper talk in a council room." Thorin groaned at the pointed look Balin shot him. Trust Balin, a born diplomat, to be offended by the inept parley before the battle, a barricade between the disputing parties and armies camped in sight of all. He much preferred this teasing to Balin's reticence of then, however, too afraid for him to upset him. "For Erebor's needs will align with Dale's," Balin finished, "our two kingdoms the stronger in standing united."

So it was that Thorin stood comfortably at Bard's side as the two of them watched the children of Dale play in the snow fresh fallen before Erebor's gates. The four-day storm that had swept out of the Grey Mountains was like to be the last of the season, according to Óin, and when the snows melted, the Men would depart for Dale, laden with the tents and tools Thorin had, at their meeting a week past, finally managed to press on Bard upon the condition that they be returned within a year.

Already some of the Dwarves were beginning to lament how empty the Mountain's halls would sound without the high, pealing laughter of many women and children, recipes left unexchanged, projects uncompleted and plays unseen. The call for workers to fill the rosters of the construction crews bound for Dale in the spring and summer was answered with more enthusiasm than Thorin had hoped for, even with the inducement of pay in each household's choice of grains, meat, fish, fruit and vegetables. Individual shares for hours labored, he and Bard had decided, the rest to go as a tithe to the king's stores, though the listing of foodstuffs on offer and in what amounts was at this point tentative.

_It will be strange not to see him_, thought Thorin, eyes on Bard as the man shouted encouragement at Tilda and a gaggle of younger girls who were pelting a fleeing Bain mercilessly with snowballs, his outrage that his father would so blatantly favor his sister echoing across the field. Between councils to review the plans Master Dofur and his draftsmen were drawing at a prodigious rate, councils to discuss the seemingly hundreds of details that suddenly needed addressing as the Men's departure neared, and _yet more_ councils to announce proposals to gathered groups of Dwarves and Men both, hear their concerns—a practice Bard insisted on, accustomed to Laketown's way of ruling by general acclamation, Thorin could only assume, despite how he was often white with tension at speaking before the crowds—Thorin had grown to expect Bard's tall, lean frame and habitually dour face to be a fixture of his day.

_Of my nights, too_, Thorin added wryly. For they continued to meet when all of Erebor slumbered, save the guards on duty. In recent weeks, however, they'd taken to sitting in the dining hall together and nursing cups of mulled wine, too exhausted to brave corridors and flights of stairs that stretched endless into the gloom.

The first couple times were... awkward. Neither of them knew quite what to say to one another without the distraction of Erebor's wondrous sights. But Bard did not tell him his presence was unwanted and Thorin did not want to leave, a niggling kernel of guilt hard in his stomach at his own reluctance to seek his ghosts in the chill of the catacombs instead. Eventually, haltingly, they learned to converse anew. Their tongues loosened by warm, spiced wine, perhaps, and the enfolding dark beyond the glow of their candles, an expectant hush in the predawn air.

No rhyme nor reason was there to their talks now. They changed topics like wheeling birds in a clear, blue sky, turning one direction, then another at a whim or the tug of a breeze. While, by tacit agreement, they still tried to keep a wide berth of the crueler parts of their histories, in many ways, Thorin found these rambling dialogues revealing of who Bard was at heart.

"Creatures of habit—that's what we all are," his grandfather had once instructed him, dressing for a dinner engagement at Dale's most exclusive crayfish house, where tables were reserved months in advance. Unless you happened to be a personal friend of Lord Girion's, of course, treating coal brokers from the Iron Hills to a local delicacy. "Likes and dislikes, the customs of a lifetime, color our view. It is always easier to convince a dwarrow to do as you wish, Thorin, if he can be made to believe it is his wont."

_And Men are no different._ Shrieks and laughter from the children, as Bain rallied the boys to defend themselves. Clusters of chatting adults ringed the battleground, the parents and not a few Dwarves, too, wearing indulgent expressions. Thorin allowed himself an inward smile, not ashamed in the least at plying his ever expanding knowledge of Bard's wont to free them both from the damnable council room. Bard would work himself into a stupor, if given half a chance, and unlike Thorin—who could, contrary to Óin and Balin's oft-voiced protests, admit when he had reached his limits—the fool man did not have a company of minders to curb his excesses.

So, as soon as the sun shone again, Thorin had suggested to a frazzled Bard that his children might enjoy some hours outside after a week cooped up in the Mountain—

_"Winter was my favorite season." Thorin snorted, skeptical. "I won't deny that winters in Esgaroth were hard," said Bard, his eyes gleaming in the candlelight, "with the cold, short rations and sickness—the boardwalks would freeze over with slush and become a hazard—but the months when ice covered the lake were the only ones I wouldn't be called away to my barge."_

_Thorin averted his gaze to his hands, wrapped around his cup. "Sigrid would mend clothes while Bain and I wove baskets from the rushes she'd collected in summer, Tilda soaking them for us a bunch at a time." The grief Thorin didn't want to see on Bard's face, feeling an intruder, was muted in his voice, softened by the fondness mention of his children never failed to bring forth._

_"And when the weather was fair, we'd cross the bridge to walk along the shore at the forest's edge." A chuckle, rasping from Bard's throat a little unwillingly. "She would scold Bain and Tilda for playing in the snow, fretting that they'd catch their deaths, but that didn't stop her from pushing me into the tallest drift she could find."_

_"It was summer I loved best," Thorin said, after Bard fell silent, "when the sun beat down hotter than the fires in the forges." The peaks of the Blue Mountains would shimmer hazily, the sea a jewel-toned reflection of the cloudless sky. "My sister and her husband would drag me out to the beach so they could wade in the waves while I watched their sons."_

_He'd grouse but halfheartedly, Fíli's hand small and precious in his as he pulled Thorin, babbling excitedly, to where Kíli had unearthed another shelled oddity or pretty pebble, worn smooth by the tides. Blinking, Thorin drank deep, the wine salty on his lips, and Bard joined him. There was nothing more to be said._

—and been gratified by Bard's quick assent, what was surely everybody in Erebor who could excuse himself from duties for the afternoon following their example.

Fortunately, they did not have to dig their way out; the Mountain's bulk had shielded the gates, the storm winds blowing in from the north. Still, the snow was heaped high in great sloping banks that the children flopped backwards into like they were featherbeds, sending up plumes of powder. Glittering in the sunlight and a pristine white, the field was soon crisscrossed by enough footprints to herald an army—not far from the truth, Thorin thought, amused—and wider furrows where the snow had been churned by play. Bright, moving spots of color in woolen hats, mittens, and scarves were scattered everywhere.

Ori and several other Dwarves had been very busy knitting with a group of women in the evenings, the fruits of their long labors proudly presented to family, friends, and unsuspecting passersby. Not even Thorin had escaped Ori. Who'd ambushed him at the gates with a cobalt blue scarf that was looped over Thorin's head as snugly as a hangman's noose before he could duck outside. The scarf was finely made, which Thorin grudgingly approved of, the weave so close it might have come from a loom, but the generous fringes on the ends were hardly fitting. And if he sometimes caught his fingers smoothing the silky wool, well, it was only because he was unused to wearing such a thing.

At least Bard had also been similarly bedecked. Atop his coat he wore a circular monstrosity that looked not unlike a large fuzzy wreath, wound twice about his neck in coils that hung across his chest. Thorin supposed the color, a mossy green threaded through with golden brown, was pleasing to the eye and the weather, though warming, yet too brisk for a Man to forgo extra layers of clothing. Bard's cheeks and, Thorin noted with glee, the tip of his nose were red from the cold.

He was about to point the latter out when he felt the unmistakable wet thump of a snowball hitting the back of his head. He growled. _Who dares?_ Had the entire breadth of the Wilderland and Eriador not lain between him and Dwalin, there would've been no question who his assailant was, but as it stood Thorin could not guess; the rest of the Company were too respectful of his position as king to throw snow at him like they were still striplings at their mothers' heels. Eyes narrowed, he turned to face the culprit. Icy water trickled down the nape of his neck.

"Balin," he said incredulously. The accused, a red knit cap sitting at a rather rakish angle upon his head, did not deny his guilt. He in fact had the gall to begin scooping together more snow as Thorin fumed at him, the impish twinkle in his eye and puff of white yarn decorating the peak of his hat lifting years from his manner. Thorin sniffed. "I would've thought you too old for children's games."

"Games? Oh, no, Thorin," said Balin, carefully packing his snow into a firm but not too firm ball, "this is a contest of skill and arms." He gave Thorin a look that was at once wounded and reproving. "Old I am, aye, but even a warrior past his prime may take pride in keeping his wits and his aim sharp."

From behind Thorin came a strangled noise, then a chuckle poorly disguised as a cough. _If that is how it is to be..._ He spread his arms in mock challenge, shifting his balance more onto the balls of his feet while moving slightly to his left. When Balin let fly his snowball, Thorin was ready.

Just as his and Dwalin's armsmaster had taught them, Thorin watched not hand nor arm but the chest and shoulders and was thus forewarned of Balin's attack. Pivoting on his right foot, he spun away with space to spare. Trickier was regaining his footing, his heels almost sliding out from under him, but he managed to stave off embarrassment with a wobble and maybe a little flailing. Bard had no such luck.

Eyes widening as he suddenly realized Balin's snowball would hit _him_ without Thorin to block it, Bard made to step back, put a foot wrong, and fell face up into the snow with a quiet _oof_, a gangling sprawl of limbs. Thorin smirked. The snowball sailed harmlessly over Bard's prone body; Balin immediately started sputtering in apology between glares at Thorin.

"It appears both your wits and aim are in dire need of honing, old friend," Thorin observed dryly. Bard groaned from his hollow of snow, one hand covering his face and shoulders shaking. Thorin felt quite pleased with himself at the curl of a smile peeking out from beneath Bard's palm.

What he had not expected was Bain's shout of "_Da!_" Thorin glanced up, alarmed, and caught a glimpse of Bain running determinedly towards them. Before a snowball hit him square in the face. It broke apart on the bridge of his nose with a splatter, blinding him. He cursed, his skin stinging, and staggered a bit. Finally wiping his eyes clean of snow, he sought Bard's delinquent son. Water beaded distractingly on his lashes and dripped from his nose; his cheeks and beard were damp with it, the taste of it cool and crisp on his lips.

But it was not Bain who'd so brought low the King Under the Mountain. Bard had propped himself up on one elbow, eyes dancing at Thorin's disgruntled face, and kneeling in the snow next to him was Tilda. Who cast Thorin decidedly guilty looks while patting her hands down her father's sides, as thorough as Óin would've been in her place.

"Darling, I'm not hurt," Bard said softly, stroking Tilda's ice-frosted hair. Flecks of snow crowned Bard's own dark head, a net of sparkling white gems. "Tilda here was the terror of every crow that thought the fields under her guard easy pickings," he added to Thorin. "A sharp eye and a mean throw—isn't that what Farmer Vanrin always used to tell me?" Bard hugged Tilda close with one arm and dropped a light kiss upon her brow as she squirmed in bashful joy, giggling.

Thorin hardened his expression into a most fearsome scowl, though not without a struggle he nearly lost, undone by a sweet child's laugh. "My lady, you have wronged me," he intoned. Tilda gasped, aghast, just as Bain skidded to a panting stop beside his sister; Bard merely arched an eyebrow, unconcerned. "My honor and that of my house—nay, of my people!—demand satisfaction for the... grave injury you dealt my pride." Then he turned to the watching Dwarves and raised his voice, his words ringing across the field. "Sons of Durin! Will you stand idle, I ask, at this insult to your king? _Du bekâr! Du bekâr!_" And a roar sounded from a hundred Dwarven throats that shook the Mountain itself.

Bard was no laggard. By the time Thorin turned back, he had scooped up Tilda, who squealed in delight, and broken into a sprint towards the largest group of Men, Bain fast on his heels as his long legs ate up the distance, both of them yelling and waving frantically to rally their troops. No more amiable chatting now, the lines of battle drawn. Thorin bared his teeth in a feral grin, armed himself with a snowball in each hand, and set off in pursuit of Bard, Balin following his lead with a chuckle. "_Khazâd ai-mênu!_" he cried as they joined the fray.

The lowering sun had stretched the shadow of the Mountain's southern spur deep into the valley when Bard at last called a truce, the battle decided not by either side claiming victory but by the sniffling of the youngest combatants as a chill wind stirred with the approaching dusk. Dwarven coats lined with fur, their owners of hardier stock than Men, were hastily shucked to bundle up children and not a few parents, too, who were beginning to feel the bite of the cold without strenuous activity to warm them.

It was a bedraggled yet cheerful lot that filed back into Erebor, trailing partially melted snow through the entrance hall by general accord to the dining hall. Where they were met by a chorus of exasperated disapproval from the women on kitchen duty as tables and benches scrubbed clean for supper were heaped carelessly with sopping clothes. Thorin basked in the radiant heat of a blazing firepit, one of several, having stripped to his undertunic after sending for towels and blankets. Mothers scolding their children and wives their husbands, animated recountings of what was already being embroidered into a proper war—he was content to listen to the happy hubbub of his people and Bard's, all their voices mingled.

How Fíli and Kíli would've loved this! Even after they'd completed their survival training and been deemed fit by Dwalin to be added to the winter roster of guards and merchant escorts, his sister-sons had never been able to resist a good tussle in the snow. It was not uncommon for Thorin to find Dís bemoaning their childish antics as she hung their clothes to dry by the hearth or them pelting each other with snowballs, usually instead of collecting firewood as instructed, when he was on the road with them. Thorin would sit them down for a stern lecture on responsibility or some such, he remembered with a fondness that warmed him more than the steaming bowl of soup a woman pressed into his hands, but inwardly he smiled at their high spirits. And Fíi and Kíli knew it, the rascals, for they were not deterred the next time or the next.

Fíli would be at those tables, Thorin finally judged, in a quieter corner. Bard was there, straddling a bench and Tilda seated before him, with many other Dwarves as well as parents and their children, combs in hand. Thorin studied Bard's relaxed posture, expression intent but tranquil as he gently untangled his daughter's hair, and thought Fíli might have felt the same. He'd been more given to contemplation than his brother, and while he could drink and make merry with the best, by evening's end he would settle at just such a corner table, drawn to the unhurried conversations of kindly folk who had nowhere else to be for the moment.

Silver and gold clasps and beads of different sizes and designs gleamed on the tabletop. One of the Dwarves from the Iron Hills, sitting beside Tilda, was letting her examine each piece of jewelry with curious fingers as he strung them back into place with the ease of daily practice. Hoary warrior and girl-child talked, an unlikely pair, too softly for Thorin to hear—by the way he stopped often to demonstrate a braid and she to enthuse over a particularly pretty ornament, about their mutual appreciation of hair fashions, apparently—Bard interrupting on occasion with a short comment and a chuckle that made Tilda scrunch her face at him.

Kíli, however, would seek rowdier company, brimming with energy. A loud burst of laughter drew Thorin's gaze then, Ori's plaintive cry of "And I missed it all!" clear above the din. Nori, who'd also been absent, patted his shoulder consolingly, vowing, "Next time, Ori... We'll show 'em next time!" Dori didn't look quite so pleased at the prospect of a next time, a pile of soggy towels gathered in his arms, but Thorin knew he'd be charging into battle, yelling fit to scare his foes witless, right alongside his brothers when that time came.

"Aye, I say we have a _yearly_ contest—us Dwarves against you Men!" seconded Bofur, to a roar of approval and more laughter. "Not that you didn't give us a fair runnin' today..." He collared Bain, standing unwisely near, and mussed the boy's hair to much protest, from Bain, and much amusement, from the watching adults. " 'Specially this one and his friends!" Bain squirmed free of Bofur's grasp to plop down on a bench, arms crossed and a black scowl on his face that so resembled his father's in a pique that Thorin had to bite the inside of his cheek.

Soon enough, though, Bain was smiling again, ducking his head at the men's praises of his cleverness. Thorin smiled, too, his rueful rather than proud. For indeed the children had been a menace on the field and not least because most of the Dwarves were reluctant to lob anything full force at some slip of a girl. Bain had led his troops on ambushes of the small sorties Thorin sent forth from the safety of their fortress for more snow, using tactics that were honorless and, to Thorin's chagrin, proved very effective.

While the Dwarves had an initial threefold advantage in numbers, the Men held their own for the first half hour. Bard's aim was as deadly with a snowball in hand as with a bow and arrow, his forces on the whole consistently competent. Fewer Dwarves could so accurately gauge the distance to a moving target at longer ranges, being primarily melee fighters; of the Company, only his sister-sons and Ori might have been able to. Thorin must have wasted every third breath sighing, unutterably mortified, as seasoned Dwarven warriors missed their marks by the yard in their eagerness. Fíli and Kíli had spoiled him.

"But better that the odds are even from the start," Bofur lamented with a heavy groan, "so I won't have to play the turncloak again." Thorin narrowed his eyes at that. If Bofur and his fellow traitors, Bifur and Dofur among them, hadn't thoroughly enjoyed their defection, Thorin would eat Bofur's hat and gladly! The giant boulder the Men had amassed hidden from their sight behind a tall drift, then rolled careening down the slope to flatten the main curtain wall of their fortress in a smash of snow and dazed defenders who were too slow getting out of the way—Thorin recognized the work of Dwarves when he saw it.

"Come now, Master Dwarf," said one of the Men, grinning widely and crookedly, "You threw more snow at your king than the lot o' us put together!" Bofur's denials were drowned by another round of laughter, as the Men swapped increasingly embellished tales of his heroics. The good-natured boasting continued unabated, except for a hearty cheer when trays of mugs sloshing with mead and ale were brought from the kitchens.

With a huff, Thorin turned his attention to finishing the rest of his soup before it cooled. If he did not listen too closely, he could trick his ears into hearing Kíli's voice calling for a toast and Fíli's murmuring to a child's giggles. His lip twisted. _Almost._ The soup was too salty for his liking, he found, herbs bitter on his tongue. When his spoon scraped the bottom of his bowl, he stared blindly at the whorls in the wood and tasted nothing but guilt—sticking to the roof of his mouth, congealed in the pit of his stomach, sharp and sour.

How long since he last thought of Fíli and Kíli like this? He had been too occupied, he told himself, busy with his duties, strengthening Erebor's alliance with the Men of Dale and his still fledgling friendship with Bard. But the truth, Thorin realized, was that he had been too... _happy_. He sneered. Playing in the snow with nary a care, as though he could make up for his sister-sons' absence. _What right have I?_ He knew exactly what he deserved.

A touch on his shoulder startled him. It was Balin, of course. "Thorin, won't you join us?" He swallowed under Balin's searching eyes, the glint in them understanding. The Company was waiting for him, expressions hopeful, at a table—actually several, shoved together in a haphazard fashion nobody seemed to mind—with Dwarves and Men of their acquaintance and, to Thorin's surprise, Bard as well as his children. While he came more often to the dining hall, during breakfast to greet his men and with Thorin when their councils ended near suppertime, never had Bard stayed so long nor to eat at any of the typically crowded tables.

Bard's grip on his spoon was white-knuckled and his shoulders hunched, but he smiled down at Tilda, nestled against his side and chattering at Master Dofur on her other side, her arm looped through his an anchor he would not cast away. Sitting opposite Tilda, the two of them framing their father as the stone sentinels did Erebor's gates, was Bain. Who also kept a hand at Bard's elbow, which Thorin noticed he would tap to warn Bard of approaching Men and Dwarves, whispering in Bard's ear to slight nods, before they could clap him on the back in half-drunken congratulations or lean over his shoulder to offer their compliments. "Da doesn't like to be touched by strangers," Bain had said, and Thorin remembered Bard's fingers locked vise-like around his wrist in unconscious reaction, one born of nerves rasped raw by too many hard trials in too short a count of days that the man was ill prepared for.

Yet Bard stayed now, on edge, try as he did to hide it. _For them_, Thorin thought. Tilda and Bain both snuck shy glances at Bard when he wasn't looking, faces alight with an innocent joy that their father was here and all was well in their world. The Men did much the same, reassuring themselves that their lord had no worries greater than there being no fresh-baked rolls left in the basket he refused to just call for, and this more than any riches or titles that could be bestowed upon him told Thorin a crown would someday grace Bard's head. _I can do no less._ Did Balin not deserve to be unburdened by his king's troubles? The Company to see that their care was not in vain, no matter that Thorin felt his gravest hurts beyond mending?

He grabbed a couple rolls from a passing tray and strode over to present one to Bard with an impatient grunt. Bard accepted with a sheepish nod before, predictably, splitting the roll in two, giving half to Bain and half to Tilda. Thorin sighed, glad for his foresight, and handed Bard the other roll to an even more sheepish thanks. But instead of eating it, Bard hesitated, biting his lip, then again split the roll in two, this time giving half back to Thorin. Who stared at the bread, soft and warm between his fingers, all of a sudden unsure what to do. He berated himself for foolishness, ate it, and took a seat across the table from Bard. It tasted far sweeter than it ought.

**· · ·**

_TBC_

* * *

><p>I know diddlysquat about archery beyond what I can learn from Wikipedia and ten-minute Google searches. Let's just pretend there's something distinctive about Bard's form. Besides that his arrows are CGI. XD<p>

Details of Bard's bow and the black arrow come straight from Weta's _The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug Chronicles: Cloaks & Daggers_ and the DOS EE. The former is 2.2 meters (7.2 feet) tall, inspired by the traditional English longbow but with a strong Asian influence, which I believe accounts for its size and flatter profile as well as Bard's behind-the-ear draw, seen also in Mongolian archery and Japanese or _kyudo_. Luke Evans is 6 feet (1.8 meters) in height, and I've eyeballed Bard's regular arrows—minds outta the gutter!—at 3 feet minimum, up to over 4 feet in length.

The black arrow is some 2 meters (6.6 feet) long and, in my headcanon, is forged of a space age metal with a better strength-to-weight ratio than steel, now forgotten. Titanium aluminide (TiAl), for instance, a superalloy that's resistant to deformation at high temperatures, corrosion and oxidation, with modern applications in jet engines. I mean, Smaug is not unlike a jumbo jet, right? And in _The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring_ (Book II, Chapter I, "Many Meetings"), Glóin does say, 'But in metalwork we cannot rival our fathers, many of whose secrets are lost. We make good armour and keen swords, but we cannot again make mail or blade to match those that were made before the dragon came.'


End file.
